


It’s The Mothers Side Of The Family.

by Koscheyyy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Background Character Death, Canon? I dont know her, Childcare, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Kidfic, M/M, Mild references to violence, Season 1, Spoilers of season four, The Institute - Freeform, apart from Tim, bad role models, its just their dynamic, jonmartin in some places but theyre just figuring it out, mature language, no one is good with children, sad childhoods, the Tundra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 42,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koscheyyy/pseuds/Koscheyyy
Summary: For an uncomfortable moment the line remains eerily quiet and Elias thinks he's been hung up on without noticing. So, with an expression of mild frustration, he goes to end the silent line but there’s a heaving sigh of irate gloom on the static receiver before Peter continues.“She’s” the man pauses “left behind a daughter”Elias feels an odd, sinking sensation low in his sternum, like he's just swallowed a large smooth stone and feels it achingly pave its way down his chest. He blinks.“A daughter?”
Relationships: (background) Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 43
Kudos: 203
Collections: Download these fuckers yo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is really one of my first times properly writing a full fic for TMA so i might be a little OOC in some places but i couldn't not get this idea out of my head. 
> 
> So please enjoy Elias and Peter being given the responsibility of looking after a child! 💜💜

Tea in the morning is a tradition long since held in the homes of British families. All over the continent people will wake either at the crack of dawn or to the last dregs of sunlight and will all instinctively reach for the kettle. It is a comfort. Listening to the water bubble and steam as they pull out all its needed components: milk (maybe?), teabag (definitely), sugar (perhaps not?). The homely clink, clink, clink as the spoon stirs round and round in the scalding concoction leaves a person with such a warm, contented feeling low in their body. 

Elias, however, prefers coffee. 

He sits, poised, legs crossed, at the marble island at the centre of his kitchen. The sun streaming through the spotless window with a faux quality that one might observe in movies. Elias jabs his tongue to the point of his canine in thought, securing two fingers around the handle of his steaming mug to bring it to his lips. A newspaper is sprawled out before him, black and white ink matching nicely against the blue brindle marble as he scans the drivel and profane. 

“‘I married my mugger’?” He reads aloud, hearing Peter enter through the kitchen archway, hazily starting a conversation. 

“Hmm?” Peter inquires as he opens the fridge, reaching for the orange juice- His orange juice. It’s a small brand that he can only procure at the ports of CapeTown, which he prides almost as much as his ship. “What mugger?” 

Elias watches him move from the fridge, past the sink to the cabinet in search of a glass. 

“Nonsense journalism” he answers, too busy observing Peter's attire to pay attention to his responding head shake. He’s wearing his purple cable knit- the good one- paired with pressed charcoal trousers- Hell, he's even wearing his ‘fancy socks’; the ashen grey ones with black trim, “Why are you so dressed up?” 

Peter shoots him a look over his shoulder and Elias can't help but smirk, “oh” he turns back to his newspaper “send your mother my love”

Peter makes an indistinguishable noise as he pours his favoured breakfast concoction. Thinking. It’s obvious that he’s thinking. He mutters under his breath and creases his brow when turning words over in his mind, puzzling them to fit so he can sum up a clever retort. Elias finds it charmingly irritating. 

“Why the sudden familial gathering?” He grows impatient with the silence and takes a sip of his cooling coffee. 

Peter turns, leaning against the counter top, glass filled with almost pestilential yellow in hand. He’s trimmed his beard too, now that Elias takes a closer look. It gnaws at him that he won't groom the bristles when he bemoans its ugliness but when Mummy calls he suddenly becomes a self-procured barber. He takes another sip of his coffee to hide his jealous disappointment. 

“No clue” crossing his arms defensively over his chest, Peter regards his husband for a moment. “I'll be sure to let you know if they’ve decided to cut my inheritance”

Quietly, Elias flips a page of his newspaper not bothering to play into the teasing as he listens to Peter drain his glass. More drivel bleeds through the pallid white sheets making his teeth click together with pressed boredom. 

“As long as I get my funding” he sighs, not bothering to watch Peter leave. 

———

Fish, he muses, are the perfect pets. 

Quiet. Clean. Aesthetically pleasing.

Peacefully they float against invisible currents, completely content in their own little world as he simply observes. So much like people. 

One might argue that a fish cannot possess such human qualities like joy and sorrow, loss and pride, love and hatred. Though he disagrees inducatibly. As he watches he can identify that the small white angelfish bumping low against the steel gray gravel is mourning the loss of her infertile eggs as their murderer floats, fat and sated with pride over Barnabas' ‘decorative’ skull. A sick grin catches his lip as he watches them. A few confectionary coloured Mollies potter past his face all flashing him with all sorts of pinprick emotions: hunger, curiosity, anger, lust, hunger again.

People may call them base, animalistic desires. Elias cannot distinguish them from the base, human desires. 

So he watches them, tapping the vibrant red cap of the fish food. Teasing. 

That is when, tediously, his mobile begins to vibrate in his breast pocket. With the light air of impatience he straightens up from his voyeuristic stupor, settling the plastic tub upon the tank before plucking the phone from inside his suit jacket. 

P. Lukas: CALLING. 

A worrisome thought of this morning's passing comment about discontinued inheritance flashes momentarily to the forefront of his mind but he pushes it away. If Peter had lost it all, he’d go through the whole phone book before he’d let Elias know about it. He presses the answer key with a dull ‘beep’ and holds it to his ear, lazily watching his Peacock eel poke out from Barnabas’ eye socket. 

“Yes?” 

“Elias” Peter responds, voice gravelly with an exhausted burden. The man in question observes the eel coiling over his ex-lover’s nasal bone before slipping back through the second socket. 

“Calling to gloat over any budget cuts” he smirks, turning on his heel to eye the portrait hanging over his desk. Mindlessly appreciating the brush work of skin and cloth long since hidden below the institute, though the eyes, green and looming, remain as sharp as ever. 

“My cousin’s died” Peter responds with as much mirth as a lead balloon. Elias’ smirk falters and he tries to make what he thinks is a noise of sincerity but he knows Peter is more put out about the thought of another familial gathering for organised mourning. 

For an uncomfortable moment the line remains eerily quiet and Elias thinks he's been hung up on without noticing. So, with an expression of mild frustration, he goes to end the silent line but there’s a heaving sigh of irate gloom on the static receiver before Peter continues. 

“She’s” the man pauses “left behind a daughter” 

Elias feels an odd, sinking sensation low in his sternum, like he's just swallowed a large smooth stone and he can feel it achingly pave its way down his chest. He blinks. 

“A daughter?” Fleetingly, he asks. 

Peter makes a non-committal sound at the other end of the line causing Elias’ patience to thin. His eyes flit from the portrait to his shoes, noting the slight fraying of his laces with disdain. 

“Is there a point to this conversation or are you being purposely tiresome?” 

The line goes silently static again. Elias pulls at an imaginary spec of lint off his cuff, waiting. 

“Her father lives in Australia and won't be in London to collect her til Monday” gratingly Peter elaborates, his stretched out emotions fogging at the end of the line as a sigh of resignation pushes through the speaker, “and my caring family has decided amongst themselves that since i am already holed up in London, that it would be best for her to stay with me” he grows quiet towards the end of his tale, highlighting his familial-rooted exhaustion. 

Elias, however, feels elated with the news of his husband's plight. Barely resisting the urge to cackle down the receiver. 

“Well” the smile obvious in his voice “i wish you luck with parenthood”

Peter merely barks out an annoyingly righteous chuckle, his mood momentarily shocked into snarky victory.

“Ohh no, no, dearest husband” he drags out a mocking tone “we share our burdens together, my newly adopted charge is your newly adopted charge” 

Elias begins to pace the room, a frown pointed downward and an ugly crease worrying its way across his brow. He jabs his tongue to the tip of his canine with thoughtful irritation. 

“I don’t remember that in your vows” he snips, the playful phrasing masking his simmering distaste for the conversation. 

“Oh, to love and honour- its the same thing” 

Elias pauses, “love?”

“Tolerate” distinctly he hears Peter’s teeth click to over-pronounce the T’s with an audible exasperation. Elias feels his eyes crinkle at the obvious effect of his barbed goading. He turns back to his fish. 

“Honestly Peter, I cannot have an infant squabbling around my house-“

“Our house” rudely, his husband corrects. 

“My house” Elias corrects Peter's correction “Mr. Bouchard is the name on the deeds” he states with an air of triumph, like a cat that’s figured out how to open the canary cage. 

“Too bad Mr. Magnus is squatting-“ 

“Peter” he snaps at him with crisp sternness, heel clacking against the polished hardwood like a finalising gunshot. His simmering distaste for this conversation now boiling displeasure at the unwanted news. A small chuff of empty laughter cackles across the receiver and it makes Elias’ fingers itch with further desire to simply dunk the phone into his fish tank. 

He takes a breath through his nose, choosing to add more decorum to his approach.

“What i'm saying is” he pauses momentarily, ensuring that Peter is in fact listening “babies drool and burp and defecate and-and i will not have it stain my cashmere throw pillows!” Decorum is unfortunately thrown out the window as he thinks about the mess alone a child could do to his house. His perfect, pristine house with Fendi Casa furniture and his husband wants to bring a child, the epitome of filth, into it. The line on his brow furrows deeper with determination. This will not stand. 

“She’s six- I’m sure they can...control themselves at that age” Peter's aim at reassurance is misjudged as it fails to turn Elias to his favour. 

“I don’t care-!” 

“Elias” the man interrupts before making a sound that is decidedly close to regret, “I’m outside” 

For a long, unsettling, drawn out moment, Elias is deadly quiet. His jaw set firm with the phone clenched in his grip and eyes stony. Breathing paused as he soaks in the knowledge. The boiling displeasure is now spilling over and starting an electrical fire. He blinks. 

“I want a divorce” the revelation is quick and well practiced upon his tongue. 

“Not the time!” Peter yells back with equal bitterness to his words, clearly as unimpressed with the situation as his husband. 

“You brought it here?” Elias sneers, turning back to his fish. The mollies are bullying the grieving mother as his eel simply watches, waiting, coiled far into Barnabas’ occipital lobe.

Peter sighs down the other end of the line, haggard and thin. Elias can just imagine him running a hand through his well primped beard with frustration. An odd half smile nags the corner of his mouth knowing how much Peter is thinking of his mother's disapproval to such behaviour.

“I have errands to run” 

Elias reaches for the discarded pot of fish food.

“Take her with you” he offers, unscrewing the lid. The grieving angelfish attacks a particularly voracious mollie, snapping at its fin and sending dead eggs flying across the tank.

“It’s a cargo debrief with Salesa” Peter informs as Elias watches the underwater drama unfold, absently he nods in understanding “I can't take a child to his warehouse! She’ll get eaten by the first shiny thing she touches…” 

Elias can practically feel Peter smile against the phone as an idea curdles in his clouded mind. The man pauses his Watching to consider his husband's next move. 

“Unless you’d want me to drop her off home first- with all your unprotected throws and furniture” Peter chuckles “unsupervised”

Elias lets out an exuberantly long exhale, feeling a headache begin to roll across his synapses. The phone growing loose in his hand and any thoughts of feeding his cannibalistic fish thrown to the wayside. The other line crackles and wheezes with stray static as Peter soaks in the victory.

“Be a dear and get Rosie to buzz us in” and then the line finally goes dead with a monotone tune. 

Oh yes, Elias thinks as he turns toward his desk, save this victory because I’m taking the blasted boat with me. 

———

The child isn’t exactly what he was expecting. 

She’s small, which isn’t strictly surprising, and she’s clean. Her brown locks scraped back into a tight ponytail that looks borderline painful but neat nonetheless. Her hands are bunched together into the front of her dull pink dress as she hides timidly behind Peter's leg and takes in the dark office with eyes that are so deliciously curious. 

Her name is Esme. 

He plucks the information straight from her innocently open mind like tearing apart wet tissue paper. She is six years old, a Lukas on her mother's side, partial to drawing and reading and she is decidedly nervous, dwarfed behind Peter's massive frame. She hangs in his shadow for reassurance, though she doesn’t trust him much. Yes, she’s seen him at a scattering of funerals- perhaps a rare wedding- but she is too young to remember the events, or Peter, with clarity. Though his quiet, calm demeanour is the same lulling aura her mother possessed. So she stands close to him for now. 

Elias however knows he is striking her with an uncomfortable feeling of rising anxiety as he watches her with strange eyes- whilst paying all his faux attention to Peter. Esme looks to the floor with obvious unease and Elias turns away.

With the looming presence of those eyes hanging over her like the dread of a guillotine now dissipated she looks about with care. Her uncle and the man- Peter had mentioned it fleetingly in the car but she’s forgotten it now- converse quietly together, yet she heeds them no attention. 

“How long will you be?” Elias asks, pretending to arrange his pens into a particular order. Peter stands before his desk, shoulders relaxed as he watches his husband's fingers roll the pens across the mahogany. 

“It’s the full quota for next month's trip, so…” he pauses, running the thought through his mind before shrugging “two hours? Maybe three if he pulls out some new trinket he wants to worm into the trading” 

His beard is haggard again, out of place with nervous grooming, Elias notes. It’s rounded, neat trim from this morning now mussed and tangled. He would look ruggedly handsome if Elias wasn’t so quietly hateful of him in this moment. 

Mr. Bouchard rests his rolling stationary before leaning forward in his seat. 

“And what am I meant to do with-?” conspiratorially he juts his chin out toward Esme, who has now found her way from Peter's shadow over to his bookshelf.

“I don’t know- just keep an eye on her” he shrugs, watching Elias watch her “don’t let her read any… inappropriate books”

Elias looks back to his husband with a subtle expression of irk, eyebrows quirked slightly and lip curled a fraction. He doesn’t understand how Elias can be so in control of his actions that he can carry a whole conversation with only a flicker of muscle. 

“As if i keep any Lietners in here” he tsks, pressing his tongue to his teeth theatrically and reaching below his desk for a certain draw. Making himself look busy. Making himself look thoroughly inconvenienced by Peter's existence. Making Peter feel the need to leave him be. 

Peter just folds his hands over his chest, eyes flickering to Jonah's portrait before settling back on the flesh and blood before him. Staring at bored eyes burrowing deeply into his own. He chews his lip in contemplation. 

“Any other queries before I go?” 

Elias throws him the most minimalist of smiles and his eyes soften with coy happiness. Thinking. 

“Is fish alright for tonight?” Head cocked to the left ever so slightly, smile thin and false. Esme remains unperturbed by the bookshelf.

“Sounds wonderful” says Peter with a complementary fakeness to his tone as he leans in, calloused palm braced on the desk, to peck Elias on the cheek with silent gratitude. His weight upsetting the nonsense arrangement of pens. Elias takes the cursory affection with a modest frown, damning the scrape of those bloody bristles against his jaw and the faint smell of sea salt now clouding him. 

Placidly he watches Peter turn for the door, no need to bid each other farewell. With a rueful action does he correct his displaced pens as the door closes with a soft slam, announcing his husband’s exit. 

Elias then turns to watch his unwanted responsibility awkwardly hover at the book cabinet like a butterfly trying to perch on a cactus. For a baited five minutes he allows her to stand, turned away from him, bunching her little fists into her pleated pinafore as he simply drinks in the taste of her inquisitiveness- not as nearly as wonderful as the ambrosia of fear but nice all the same. He blinks. 

“Esme” the word pointed though non-threatening in tone. Not wanting to scare her. Well- not wanting to scare her much. 

The young girl turns to his voice a trifle cautious, eyes down turned and shy. That is most certainly from her mother's side of the family. He learns forward in his chair, elbows on the desk and putting on his least threatening smile. 

“You can choose any book you like- though i fear those may be a tad ambitious” he gages her slight change in timid demeanour fiercely “i have a whole library downstairs where you might find something you’d prefer”

Her eyes, Elias notes, light up with an unguarded fascination- the kind of which his Patreon unabashedly craves. Oh, how sad you were born of forsaken blood, he thinks despairingly. 

“Really? A whole library?” Swept up in the torrent of her excitement she forgets her apprehension, skipping up to Elias’ desk to peer up over the edge. Her little fingers finally coming away from the front of her, now crumpled, dress to grasp at the lip of his dark mahogany desk. Carefully does Elias allow a smile to curl his lip at his own brilliance, cracking the secret of childcare. 

With little fanfare does he tell her how to navigate down the stairs to the lobby and go through the large double doors, ensuring she is listening and sure of her course before letting her go. He doesn’t want to bother Rosie with something so trivial and he most definitely doesn’t want to be seen in the company of a child- he has a certain image to uphold which doesn’t match Esme’s ponytail and pinafore.

Though of course he follows her through borrowed eyes down the corridors. He’s not an idiot. 

She wanders down the halls, drinking in her surroundings with vibrant awe that he can admire to a degree. Where would he be if he didn’t enjoy the human desire to simply know? She takes an annoyingly long time making her way down the stairs though, clinging to the railing above her head and taking meanderingly slow strides to keep her balance. At his desk he sighs before wondering about what he’d do if she did fall? Sit and watch eagerly as she tumbled head over foot to the marble flooring to see how many bones she'd break in a single bound? Or would the last shred of humanity inside him kick those base, paternal instincts into motion and he’d be out of the room instantly to soothe her crying? Frustration grabs at him with the rarity of simply having no clue of the answer. 

Esme does make it down the stairs safely however, so he will probably have to placate himself with just not knowing for now. 

After toddling past reception and through to the library, Esme spends her time navigating the vast isles of books. Her attention snagging at the bright colours of the ‘kids corner’ that he had reservations against when it was first installed- but now it's his godsend as she settles upon one of the half deflated bean-bag with a small cache of dog-eared fiction. He watches for a fraction longer, ensuring she is settled with a tedious pop-up book before drawing his attention back to his own work.

While reaching for a pen does he give himself a perfectory appraisal, metaphysically patting himself on the back for a job well done for putting as little work as possible into babysitting. Dismissively he thinks of writing to the ‘mothercare’ articles on page 12 to flaunt his success. He won't though; mind reading isn’t a skill all parents could obtain within the span of nine months he supposes before selecting a pen from the orderly row and getting back to scheduling.

———

Pop up books, Esme decides, are brilliant. 

Brilliant and surprising and amazingly fun but short. Really, annoyingly short. She has been sat on her beanbag of choice- the pink one- for nearly an hour and has already tore through her bundle of books. Twice. 

She has seen Jane run, learned about how George slayed the dragon and absolutely loved helping the train believe in himself. But now she was bored. Bored and alone. 

And she didn't exactly care much for either states of mind. Being bored was boring and being alone was lonely. 

She sinks a little deeper into her beanbag to think of a solution. 

On her way in, with her uncle, Esme noticed that the building was huge. Huge and creepy. So naturally she is spurned with the need to explore. 

With a little maneuvering trouble, she wriggles free from the beanbag’s grip and straightens out her pinafore. Esme then puts her collection of books away- in as roughly the right place as she could remember- before tottering off away from Kids Corner in search of something to alleviate this bored and lonely stupor. 

First she takes a left, then a couple rights- stopping somewhere between to gaze at a particularly cool book cover- before doing a complete 180 spin at a deadend. Everywhere she looked, glanced and breathed, there were books. Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions! All crowded around her; staring down at her from their perches like birds on telegraph wire. 

She had been to libraries before. Her mother loves- loved- books, always reading, always thinking. Always quiet. 

She misses her mother- even though they barely spoke to or interacted with each other in any way. Heavily does the weight of her absence sit on her little shoulders. Mildred- her nanny- told her that she need not cry for her because her mother will always be there, in spirit. Esme doesn't believe that. She knows her mum will be where she always was; with her books. Milred told her that was a nice way to think of her afterlife and Esme thinks so too. Though it leaves an odd sort of hollowness in her which she can't quite place. 

Perhaps if she looks hard enough, she can find her mother here, stuffed between the books like paper and ink. She just needs to find the right story. 

After a few more rights and a curious left she wanders across a plaque. Its copper shine drawing her eye as if she were a magpie caught in the lure of pretty penny. 

‘The Magnus Institute’, it reads. ‘Founded by Jonah Magnus, 1818,-‘ Esme stops reading for a lack of interest in trivia. Though what she does notice however, is a map. 

A treasure map? Who can say? But the rising swell of hope in her chest only adds to the excitement of the discovery. All she has to do now is find what treasure it is pointing to. 

“You are here” she reads, comprehension a little further ahead thanks to private tutors since she was three, pressing her index finger to the red dot. Right, she ponders, trying to figure out exactly where this map is supposedly leading her. Though it's all a bit nonsensical with no luring, dotted lines or even a great big X to signify her hidden prize. 

Esme pouts her lip with thought. Treasure on a treasure map is usually far away- that's why you need the map. So really the treasure should be the farthest away from her. And I'm here, she reaffirms with her finger still pressed to the dot. So the treasure must be…

“In the Archives…” She whispers triumphantly, feeling very pleased with herself indeed- and decidedly not bored. 

The Archives, Esme notes, sounds like the perfect place to find treasure. An adventure to occupy however long she's here for. Maybe forever? 

The thought doesn't strike her with as much fear as it probably should. She doesn't dwell on it. 

Perplexingly, the map details her route with confusing lines and odd shapes. To her though it is rather clear. To go down the next aisle, take a right, through the doors, past ‘reception’, down two flights of stairs and along the corridor. 

Piece of cake. 

She takes off to the left down the next aisle, as per the map's instruction, with childish hope fueling her insatiable search for adventure. The tread of her plimsolls echoing faintly against the many book spines as she goes like a boat's wake in calm waters. 

Surprisingly, it is very easy for a child such as herself to go undetected in this building. Esme manages to pass by on her merry way under the noses of the reception staff; past some people loitering in the stairwell and even going unspotted when she accidentally took a wrong turn into a cafe area. She feels like a ghost. A spy. An adventurer; quiet and stealthy as she seeks out her prize. 

So when she finally reaches the last step of the daunting staircase, the luring call of promised treasure is too sweet to ignore. Esme hops off the last step with a gleeful pride before walking through to the dimly lit hall, brave against spookiness, looking wistfully at the sign titling ‘The Archives’ as she passes.

The room she enters is bare and boring. The lighting is sad with a muted quality and the walls are a dull cream colour. To her right is a tucked away workstation, littered with crowded desks and cramped bookshelves. She takes a few more heedless steps further into the unassuming lobby to see a door labelled ‘break room’. Esme's brow creases. This is not the treasure she was expecting- this is not the prize she hunted. 

She sort of archives! Spooky, scary halls with stories and gold! 

Esme ventures further to the room, assuming what she wanted would soon jump out at her, landing at her victorious feet. Which is sort of what happens. Though more in the form of noticing the hall rolling on with its dull, pallid walls. Perhaps the Archives are down there?

Esme nods to herself, yes, just a little further, she reasons. Steeling her anxiety with the familiar bravery bred into childish ignorance, does the girl continue on her adventure like a record needle simply jumping over the scratched-in obstacles. The tread of her plimsolls no longer making a sound on the soft floorboards. 

With a flickering impatience she searches the bare walls for another map; a clue; a sign- something to correct the hitch she’s found on her trail.

Her engrossed momentum stands as a downfall however, when deep in her exploration does she forget the simple rule of looking where she’s going. So it can be described as a great deal her ‘fault’ when she barrels into the legs of a stranger coming in the opposite direction.

Though to be fair, he had his nose buried into a case file as he walked, making him equally clueless to his surroundings. So it could be called a crash of equal oblivious parties. 

The man grunts with surprise as he jolts forward, dropping his folder to the floor as his glasses slip down his nose. 

“Martin! I told you-! Oh” he begins to shout before looking down. He freezes, eyes wide.

“Uh” Esme's face is a mirror image, though her cheeks turn red with the embarrassment of finally being seen- the strangers gaze beaming at her like car headlights as she stands frozen, like a little rabbit.

“What are you doing down here?” The man asks. There’s a slight hardness to his tone which is just the thing to finally kick Esme into a panic. Her mouth opens with the first sharp intake of breath and her eyes start to water with embarrassed tears. 

“I’m sorry!” She balks, face turning rash red as tears roll, fat and blubbering, down her jaw. 

The stranger's pensive gaze dissolves like sugar paper in water.

“Woah, woah” his tone much softer whilst hastily dropping to one knee, looking Esme in the eye- though with less intimation. “It’s okay- look its alright- I’m Jon, What’s your name?” 

The girl before him gulps down a heaving sob, unsure if she should bolt from the man's- Jon’s- presence, back to the pop-up books and beanbag. But that is not what a brave crusader would do.

“Es-me” her speech pushed over a pained hiccup. Her hands are once again bunched up into the front of the dusty pink smock. Jon just smiles as calmly as possible.

“Esme” he repeats delicately “that’s a nice name- are you lost Esme?” His brows are pinched together, pressing lines to his forehead, making him look old. Old and kind, “its okay if you are, i can help you find your mum” 

That was, Jon finds, the worst thing he could have said as Esme once again breaks into hysterics.

“Okay! Okay!” He nearly topples backwards with the power of her outburst, eyes going wide and arms coming up placidly. “Okay, Tea?” That's what Martin would do- oh bugger, why wasn't Martin here? “W-would you like some tea, Esme? Maybe some biscuits?”

Timidly, she nods her head, sniffling and rubbing at her puffy eyes. Tea and biscuits did sound nice- tea and biscuits always sounded nice. Comforting and homely. A prospect she’s only ever experienced when her mum was feeling particularly maternal.

“Come on then” Jon offers his hand. Hesitantly, she accepts his offer like a brave explorer and follows him to the break room.

The case file forgotten on the polished floor.

———

Tea, as aforementioned, is a much loved remedy to calm spiked nerves.

So Jon, naturally, flicks on the kettle as soon as he has Esme settled on the break room sofa- very unsure on how he got into this situation in the first place. 

Desolately he thinks about his forgotten case file. The interesting report of Miss Sharp and her apparently sentient shadow that told her the future. Paranoid schizophrenia at best- though some points she raised about the entity she called Bill had his hackles up. Particularly the fact about his ability to move objects, speak disjointedly about the future and the disturbing lack of eyes. 

He shakes his head- paranoid schizophrenia at best. 

On the couch Esme begins to relax just as the kettle begins its shrill whistle. He makes the tea the way he thinks a child might like it- milky with perhaps too much sugar- and digs out a half finished pack of digestives hidden at the back of the cupboard. 

Steadily he brings the peace offerings to the tacky staff-room table, settling down beside her and waiting for her reaction quietly. It’s what he would have respected, if he were in the same situation- though he hasn’t cried in the presence of a stranger since he was about ten and that was strictly because a bully had (accidentally?) broken his thumb. Thinking back on it he can't really remember the last time he actually cried. Should that be concerning?

“My mummy died” Esme speaks finally, her voice burdened with sadness as she regards the tea. Jon tries not to let the words surprise him; not even dwelling on the news to stew on a response.

“My mummy died too- when i was little” Jon confides with her. He knew he cried when she had left him- sobbing and gasping at the absence of her, though that was understandable he supposes. He hadn’t known her long- as he said he was little- but the impact had swallowed him like a whole in the earth, enveloping him in such grief that not even his grandmother's stilted hug could soothe him. Nothing ever really soothes that ache.

“Really?” Her question shaking him from that cold pit of thought. Bringing him crashing back into the dull light of the room and the scent of cooling tea.

“Yeah” why was he having a therapy session with a five year old? “Who looks after you now?”

Jon takes a biscuit from the crumpled packet and offers it toward her; a trade.

“I don’t know- my uncle Peter brought me here” she takes the digestive and nibbles finely upon it. Crumbs catch in the pleats of her dress but she takes no notice of it. 

Jon takes a biscuit for himself, realising his last real meal was last night's ramen. God that’s depressing.

“Where is he now?”

“A meeting” 

“So he just left you here?” Jon crinkles his nose, confused “to wander?” 

Yes, his grandmother had done the same thing whilst she went to play crib but he hardly considers it the same thing since the game was held just across the street- and Layla (the librarian) would always keep an eye on him. Since he tended to wander freely. Not so much anymore though. Not since that book.

He raises the biscuit to his mouth, not wanting to dwell. 

“The other man said I could!” Esme protests with pleading eyes that rip a whole right through Jon’s core. 

“Alright...What other man?” The digestive now pulled away from his lips as curiosity grips him like a mouse in the coils of an unforgiving serpent. 

Esme looks down at her joined hands that rest atop her lap.

“I don’t know” and honestly she didn’t, his name escaped her almost instantly as Peter muttered it briefly on the car ride over. Once again she turns to Jon with those begging eyes “he said i could read what i wanted… but i got bored” the last of her statement coming out as a shy mumble, eyes downcast. 

“So you came down here” it's more of a blank acknowledgement than an accusation as he bites into the digestive. His lack of anger causes Esme to relax further where she sits beside Jon. 

“For more stories” she beams, the earlier despair now rolling off her shoulders like a dissipating fog. “What were you reading earlier?” 

Jon watches her lean towards him expectantly, hands braced on the table to steady her. A feint grin painting her expression as she edges forward. A thin line pulling taut in his memory; highlighting how this is what he must have been like as a child. Odd and fascinated with the need to explore. 

It’s rather a frightening thing to see your younger self in the eyes of a stranger. He smiles.

“Nothing appropriate for you” he hums, thinking of Miss. Sharp’s tendency to describe in great detail of the pain her tormentor would cause and the visions that would plague her. 

Esme just continues to gaze up at him with those restless eyes starting to squint with the nudging need to dig. 

“Do you know any good stories then? With dragons? Or princesses? Or pirates?” Her questions jarring and wide eyed with childish wonder. Who was Jon to refuse a child so eager for fables? Especially a child who reminded him so clearly of his youthful curiosity. 

“Well-“ there was this one story he knew…

———

Working in the archives often comes with hearing, seeing and even experiencing oddities beyond comprehension. The job nearly always led to researching gory murders, listening to the ramblings of the mentally deranged and helping piece together case photos of the down-right wrong. 

But this was most definitely a sight on its own level of bizzare.

So much so that Tim pauses in the doorway of the break room after witnessing such a sight. Martin having to nudge him gently on the shoulder to even get the chance to enter. 

On the couch Jon freezes also, half way between his speech as the goblin trader, spinning a tale to Esme- the bravest knight in the land- of her quest to receive the sword of Magnus and slay the dragon! 

The moment his eyes clap upon the men in the doorway does he noticeably blush with embarrassment, still hunched over with his hands paused midair theatrically. Esme barely notices their presence from where she sits enthralled with Jon’s story. 

“Oh, don’t stop now! I just got my phone out!” Tim whines, waving his phone about dramatically. Martin loiters quietly by Tim’s shoulder, a little dumbstruck.

“I was just-“ Jon coughs into his fist while straightening up his posture, steeling his voice back into its more mature drawl. Esme frowns slightly with the rather sudden disruption to the best story she’s ever heard. “Esme i think we should probably go find your uncle now” 

Jon ushers gently at her to get up, trying to give off the utmost professionalism to the action as Martin and Tim just stand there, obviously mocking him mentally. They’ll probably laugh over it when he leaves, marking it down as another of his downfalls; childishly entertaining a kid with degradingly detailed voices and plot. 

“Oh but Jon” the girl at his side stands up on the couch suddenly “what about the DRAGON!” She squeals with intense delight and jumps against his shoulder, all the while pretending to breathe fire past his head. 

In the threshold does Tim barely contain his snort of laughter as he watches old-stuck-up Sims be defeated by a little girl. The mere sight of it sending an odd electrical chill down his spine at it being so mind bendingly bizarre. He would pinch himself to make sure he’s not having a nightmare but he’s sure not even his mind could come up with something like this. 

So may as well accept it and go with the flow. What else can he possibly do rather than soak in the sight to fuel some quality gossip time with Sasha when she gets back from her bloody inquiry.

“Uh oh, Martin it looks like you’ve got competition in the whole crushes on Jon department” Tim titters quietly, elbowing Martin gently in the ribs. Oh, Sasha is going to die when she hears about this.

“Will you shush!” Martin bumps him in the shoulder half heartedly as he watches Jon pretend to struggle under Esme’s assault. Martin’s face dusting over with a pink blush as a voice in his mind loudly points out how good Jon is with children. No, not the time! He coughs into his fist and tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear nervously. 

“Just saying” Tim shrugs as he reaches for the kettle. “Are we really so bad to work with that you’ve had to branch out for more assistants, Jon?”

“Esme was lost, I was merely keeping her company until she was ready to go find her uncle” Jon retorts, clipped and professional as ever- even whilst half heartedly shoving the Dragon-Esme from his shoulder. 

“I’d probably give it a few minutes…” Martin pipes up, blush under control and sits down in front of Jon. Then taking a digestive from the packet to occupy himself from the unhelpful thoughts of how Jon would read to their children- seriously, stop. 

“Why?” Jon’s tone is a little lighter than usual as he leans over the table, intrigued. The tips of Martin’s ears begin to burn again. 

“Cause Elias is prowling around up there-“

“Oh that’s him!” Esme explains, mercifully pulling away from Jon to address the confused men. Standing up straighter on the lumpy sofa as if she is about to give a rousing speech to her scattered troops. 

“Who’s what now?” Tim questions, stirring his tea with the handle of a knife. 

“Elias- that was his name-“ yes, that was definitely it, “that’s who my uncle Peter left me with”

Three sets of eyes all look to each other quizzically for a moment, a growing sense of dreaded understanding starting to fog the room. Together they all reach a similar conclusion and collectively swallow audibly around the unease. 

They’ve only really heard of Elias’s elusive husband through passing comments made toward the end of staff meetings and even saw him once at an institute fundraiser. Tall and looming and bloody big; his size highlighted by the lithe form of Elias hanging off his arm as they swept around the hall, intimidating. 

“Esme?” Jon asks with caution, preparing a question they are all certain of the answer to, “what’s your last name?” 

“Lukas”

Martin curses under his breath as he drops his digestive on the floor. 

———

Elias is very punctual in everything he does; timekeeping, scheduling and attire being a few examples of such behaviour. So naturally he checks in on his unwanted charge routinely- after all, the institute's prowess at warding off monsters didn’t exactly extend to the beasts of humanity that weren’t aligned to any fear apart from their own sadism. 200 years had taught Elias that humans really did have the capacity to be monsters of their own accordance and the knowledge weighed upon him heavily as Esme sat tucked away within his library.

But she was there- of that fact he was certain. Using his many eyes to gently peer down at her to ensure he was taking the minimal amount of care for her safety. God only knows how Peter would react if he’d lost her- probably not badly but still, losing a child on his property was something he’d rather avoid. Reputation is everything after all.

So after about twenty five minutes since his last mandatory check he pulls away from his wages forms, stretching out of his hunched posture and simply Looks.

What he sees makes something inside him squeeze uncomfortably- though not fear. Definitely not fear. 

She’s gone. Her little coop of books and beanbag empty and cleared of any sign of her ever being there. His eyes- all of them- go wide with the dawning realisation that he has lost a child, in under an hour. 

That must be a record of some sort surely?

No. He shakes his head before propping his elbows against the desk, resting his chin on his knuckles and diving deep into the occipital net of the building. Like a shadow he creeps into every nook and cranny that a child could remotely fit, inspecting the halls and shelves for any sign of the girl. She still evades his sight and his heart speeds up ever so slightly, he can't discern why. Frustrated, he jabs his tongue to the point of his canine and thinks- if i were a child where would i go? 

He widens his search. First he searches in the library back rooms, finding nothing but staff slouching over the return piles and sorting donations- he doesn’t allow himself to be distracted by the relief of seeing them working. Next he turns to the reception: empty. The staff quarters: deserted of any possible children- which should be good but he Elias barely contains his irritated growl. The canteen: no Nieces in sight. 

He pulls back to himself with a huff, apprehension rising. A harrowing need to physically get up, out of his office and search the corridors nags at him with a growing intensity. He blinks.

Swiftly, Elias stands, steeling himself with a swipe of his jacket and makes for the door. Throwing a cursory order to Rosie as he passes to alert him if she spots the little girl from earlier. The woman just nods her head, continuing to paint her nails that vibrant cerise. 

His first begrudging line of action is to check the bathrooms- quietly prowling through the men’s and simply opening the girls room and calling for Esme is how he chooses to lose self respect. Though Esme still eludes his sight. 

He does a weird half-jog down the stairs towards the lobby to sweep through reception. Skulking behind the counter and through to the back door, upsetting all the bad postured slouching and idle gossip with his unexpected appearance. Well at least that made him feel a little better. 

“Has anyone seen a young girl?” He hovers a hand to his hip “-this height- brown hair in a ponytail? Pink dress? Didn’t walk past? Wasn’t with anyone?” A fake smile is pressed to his mouth, trying to maintain a calm demeanour as he needles at their minds for any glimpse of Esme. 

“No sir” they all mutter, almost in unison, as confusion makes up their expressions. 

In an institute of the eye how can one blundering child go about without anyone noticing! How embarrassing. 

Elias shrugs off the daunting dread and vacates their pathetic company before any of them can question further, mind turning to his next direction: the library. 

With more noise than he would have cared for, he bursts through the heavy oak doors, already casting his vision around the packed shelves. His librarian pausing her perfunctory shushing as realisation lights her face. Elias takes no notice of her. Purpose drives his strides as he searches, heels clacking upon the hardwood floor and echoing like individual gunshots in the silence. There is no need to ask his staff of Esme’s whereabouts he reasons, with members of the public lingering about. As a man who’s spent years watching through the woodwork he's come to know just how many ears the walls possess too. 

Hurried in his pace he ‘whizzes’ around the library- casting his sight down aisles and around corners. Irritation and dread seeping deep into his bones as Esme still eludes him like smoke on the breeze.

Oh, there’s a thought. 

No, he dismisses the notion as he pokes his head out to the smokers area. Surely Peter would have mentioned that she had budding powers of apparition and he would have definitely sensed the lingering chill of the lonely on her overactive shoulders. The smokers area is offensively free of any children though he envies the few loitering strangers standing, care free, with their cigarettes. He could do with one of those right now- or something a little stronger perhaps.

So if she’s not out here, or in the library, or reception or even the bloody loo then she must have explored further- perhaps she was hungry? He supposed children do get hungry and Peter wouldn’t have been so attentive to another person as to get a McDonalds on the drive back from Kent. 

The canteen isn’t a place he regularly visits, preferring to have lunch in his office or occasionally out at the charming restaurant down Piccadilly. Though of course he knows of the canteen, sometimes he pays a visit to pull an unexpecting staff member from their meal for a meeting- he likes being inconvenient that way. So Elias hurries down the next flight of stairs into the rather busy canteen. 

The amount of eyes that stop and stare at him is unfairly intoxicating as he stands awkwardly in the doorway. With little fanfare does he straighten his posture and strides into the room, all the eyes falling off of him nervously as if trying to avoid his attention. How quaint. 

Out of the corner of his eye (one of the many) he notices the young Mr. Blackwood and Mr. Stoker hastily evacuate their table and make for the door. Most likely heading down to the archives since they’re- his eyes flicker to the wall clock- thirty minutes over their allotted break slot. He makes a mental note and goes back to pretending that he's not looking for anything whilst definitely looking for something.  
Which is, disappointingly, not here. 

Isn’t it about time one would call the police? Should he call the police? It’s probably about time he calls the police. 

He blinks, and doesn’t call the police. 

Mainly due to the idea Mr.Blackwood and Mr. Stoker have planted quite brilliantly into his mind. He hasn’t checked the archives yet and where on God’s disgustingly green earth would a child want to mindlessly wander towards more than anywhere? 

Pressing a thin smile to his face as an odd type of farewell to his bewildered staff, he leaves. Marching out through the doors and down the dark stairwell with a swelling purposefulness. 

Disdainfully, Elias muses how wonderfully misplaced all his eyes are in the archives. Yes, the archives themselves are well in sight and Jons office is positively covered in observatory windows but the stray few in the assistant’s work station do nothing to further his vision. The break room however is practically a blind spot. He makes the mental note to change that as soon as this debacle blows over.

The archives are dimly lit and surprisingly vacant as he comes to stand at the bottom of the stairwell. For a moment he pats at his ironed collar and smoothes down his hair, centring himself with a steady breath before moving forward toward the break room.

Which he is unsurprised to find, houses the source of his blight and archival staff. Whom of which are currently crowded around Esme as she animatedly tells them some tall tale- and he cannot describe the relief. That irritating tension easing from him in a controlled sigh. Maintaining his picture of professional grace as he stands in the threshold. 

“How’s it going Mr.B?” Tim calls from his seat, drawing the attention of his surrounding fellows. 

“Decidedly irksome, Mr. Stoker- but isn’t that just life?” Elias retorts, smile false and beaming as he fiddles with his cufflinks- trying to give the impression that he wasn't just having a mild heart attack five minutes earlier. Tim shrugs in his seat, nonplussed with Elias’ snark. 

“D-do you want tea, Elias?” Martin asks, scooting his chair slightly against the floor. The sound of scraping wood loud in the crowded silence. 

Elias takes a few steps further into the room, waving a hand scantily in Martin’s direction, “no that’s quite alright- i see you’ve been looking after Esme for me” 

“‘She got lost-“ Jon mutters out apologetically, running a hand through his partially groomed hair with half hidden nerves. 

“All’s well now” Elias interrupts, a mild warmth to his thin smile “i'll take her out of your hands so you can get back to the work I’m sure you’re rather busy with”

“Can’t i stay down here?” Esme bemoans, standing up on her chair and pulling a rather impressive pout. Elias remembers seeing that particular expression on Peter’s face many times. It must be one of the multiple, stubborn, traits passed through the bloodline. “Jon said he would show me the archives!”

“Ah- well- she asked and i-“ Jon sputters around his words.

“It’s quite alright Jon” Elias puts up a hand to halt the archivist effectively “come now, Esme” he commands her like a dog from across the room. Esme noticeably quietens whilst turning an ashy sort of shy. 

That must be her mother's side of the family. 

“Bye Jon” she turns to give him a hug farewell, which he doesn’t expect. Awkwardly he allows her to wrap her little arms around his shoulders for a quick squeeze before pulling away, her bubbly cheeriness back upon her face. “Did the princess get the sword in the end?” 

“Oh- you’ll have to come back tomorrow to hear how that one ends” he informs quietly with a wiry smile, causing her to beam with giddiness. Excitedly she gives him a curt nod, grin wide, before climbing down to the floor towards Elias. 

“Bye Tim! Bye Martin!” Esme waves to them as she skips across the floor to Elias and, much to his displeasure, grabs hold of his manicured hand.

“Good day gentlemen” Elias bids them an automatic farewell before leading Esme out of the door and back towards his office.

The three men remaining in the break room watch in pensive silence as the door shuts with an eerie squeak. 

“Bye bye Nanny McPhee!” Tim mutters sarcastically toward the closed door. 

“Tim-!” Martin breathes, a little shocked, against the rim of his tea cup.

“Oh come on Martin- can you imagine Elias looking after a child! It would be all” Tim sits up straighter and scowls dramatically, putting on his best impression “do your homework and eat all your spinach or no television privileges for a fortnight” 

“He’s not Popeye” Martin giggles a little apprehensively behind his mug. His eyes flickering towards Jon for reassurance on his reaction only to see him impassively listening to Tim’s grousing.

“Yeah but he clearly smokes a pipe-“ Tim waggles his brow with a mischievous glint to his expression” I’m talking about Peter-“

“Yes, I got it” Martin interrupts, placing his mug on the table top. His tone impassive. 

“That's so inappropriate” Jon groans from across the table as a hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose; exhausted. 

Tim leans back in his chair with a smug grin across his lips and hooking an arm over the back of his seat. The picture of laddish jaunting. 

“Well what I’m getting at is, that kid is stuck with count Olaf and Captain Haddock as carers- probably teaching her what fork to eat her soup with or something crazy”

“Fork to eat her soup?” Martin mimics with confusion. 

“Not a cake fork” States Jon absently before startling at Martin’s abrupt and absurdly loud laughter. 

Which he is quick to stop behind pursed lips as an obnoxious flush begins to spread across his face like ink plunged into water. Tim stares at him with a stupidly large grin as his face grows an oxygen deprived red. 

Jon coughs into his hand. Martin's ears turn pink. 

“I have a statement to read” he excuses himself with little fanfare and definitely not dwelling on the striking adorableness of Martin's laughter. 

Quietly, Tim sits beside his now tomato red colleague, watching Jon hastily leave for his office. The grin on his face stretching wider as the ability to contain his laughter drains further from his grip. Oh how much fun he's going to have telling Sasha about this. 

“You idiot” Tim claps Martin on the shoulder before throwing his head back with a jovial cackle. Martin just scowls as his ears burn with lingering embarrassment. 

———

“It isn’t safe to wander off like that” Elias states as they reach his office, letting go of Esme’s hand and wiping it on his trouser leg. 

“Sorry…” she mutters solemnly, following him across the room to his desk. Her head is bowed down close to her chest and hands clasped in front of her, twisted in the cloth of her dress: the image of childish guilt. Her words stinging and urging an unamusing sense of accountability to Elias’ own actions. Since he was, technically, the one that set her free upon his institute with little thought to her safety. 

“What would have happened if Jon hadn’t found you? Or you got really lost? Or if you’d gotten hurt?” He slides into his seat, watching her downcast eyes as she stands before him as if on trial. 

It is in this moment that realisation finally hits him, pinning him with a crisp flicker of sincerity to consider she has just lost her mother. Not an orphan, but as good as. 

For a moment of weakness he thinks back to his own mother; not Elias’s or James’s or the many no-faced loners that came before them which he managed to live upon like a capitalistic lamprey. No. He thinks of his real mother. She’s nothing more than dust in the churned earth now, but his faded memory of her is one of fondness. Such a kind woman, nonplussed for stature or riches. Simply content where she sat in life. 

She never understood his inquisitiveness; the power that drove him but she never hid her pride. Her son; founder of an archive! Rubbing elbows with men who had more money than sense and always dressed in an attire that could put most Ballroom Bessies to shame- her turn of phrases always making him smile thinly. She was a kindly woman, honest and fair with all her children, though he Knew she favoured him most. The fact alone made him want to reach higher than his siblings ever could- and Smirke’s ramblings saw to that. 

She also had a deep, deep fear of the open ocean- though he kept that fact as far from the man now known as Simon as possible. Although that effort was all in vain since it was ill health to take her before the Vast could even look her way. 

He would visit her grave if it were there anymore. 

“But i suppose it's a lesson learnt, hmm?” He draws back to himself from his dwelling, sweeping a hand through his hair and peering over at the little girl. 

Quietly she nods in agreement, the sorrow rolling off her all too similar to the mandatory loneliness that clings to his husband. Elias regresses a shiver to the child’s sudden coldness and reaches for some filing paper. 

“Here, I presume you like drawing?” he frames it like a question but it was one of the first blasé facts he plucked from her jubilantly open mind. Elias then shoves the blank paper, a pencil and a few coloured highlighters at her over the polished desk surface. Vaguely cautious does Esme accept his offering, though the bright spark of joy embers at the back of her eyes. He presses his tongue flatly to the roof of his mouth, behind his thin lipped smile. 

Discreetly, Esme then preoccupies herself with the supplies by sitting on the hardwood floor, scribbling away contently. He watches her for a moment, ensuring she is settled before turning to his computer and the awaiting files. Though he does grit his teeth with every particularly harsh stroke of her pencil she grooves into the floor. Well- at least she was in his sight rather than wandering aimlessly about his institute. 

She remains quiet at the base of his desk for an hour as he finishes up some scheduling debacle over imports and exports. Really, if people just communicated and stuck to pre-arranged time slots then these problems wouldn't keep being thrown upon his desk as if he were their babysitter. 

He blanches at the ironic thought and flicks an eye in Esme’s direction. That is until there is a light knock upon the door before it opens a crack. 

“I'm off now, Mr. Bouchard” Rosie's head pops around the door before stepping into the light, gripping a hand around the strap of her cheap shoulder bag, “i've left the print out manifests for storage in the red folder, oh- and Mr. Fairchild wanted to speak with you so i pencilled him in for two tomorrow” hesitantly she shuffles her feet on the floor, ready to go home. Though- no, her phone keeps buzzing and she’s got that half smile of excitement ghosting her lip. Girls night out then. 

“Thank you Rosie” he sits up straighter in his seat, intrigued “did Simon say what the meeting was for?” 

“Oh, something about you acquiring a new asset” her face scrunches with telltale confusion, revealing that she took in as much of Simon's fanciful ramblings as a strainer retains water. Though he can't blame her. Simon's whimsical metaphors and half baked analogies bore him to no end when subjected to them for longer than strictly necessary. 

“Hmmm” he muses for a moment “well, thank you Rosie, have a good night” 

He tries not to show his envy of her awaiting carefree night and lack of irksome responsibility but alas, we can't all be a single woman in our twenties now, can we?

“You too, sir” she retorts with a shy smile before turning to go, throwing a small wave to Esme as she disappears from sight- well, regular human sight.

Elias then checks his stupidly expensive wrist watch and stretches in his seat. It’s still an hour before Peter should get home from his all important meeting and that’s not even factoring the inevitable hold up with whatever wager Salesa wants to present. He really should discourage Peter’s material vices though he supposes it's not in his interest to meddle in his husband’s business. Such as it’s not Peter's place to interfere with his institute. 

Yet here he was, having his work interrupted by his husband's lack of responsibility; currently scribbling nonsense upon institute paper. Pensively, Elias chews on his tongue thinking over how to best continue his evening with a child in tow. 

Leaving at his usual time may open up the opportunity of being seen in the company of his newly adopted charge which could be disastrous for his reputation. Which is incredibly important. Though departing now is an abuse of his bureaucratic power, it would give him less chance of being seen and more time to plan Peter's demise as he prepares dinner.

Yes, he smiles, a direct plan of action. 

Pointedly he turns to his laptop and, after double checking all files are updated and saved, shuts it down. 

“Esme, collect up all your things” he says over the lip of his desk “we’re leaving now” 

She stands quietly, bringing her multiple doodles with her before dumping them, with a bold look of pride, upon his desk. Optimistically she beams up at him, presumably waiting for some kind of approval. He doubts she got anything like that in a Lukas household. 

“Oh they’re...lovely?” Elias states with a faux grin, grasping one of the many drawings and glancing down at what he thinks is the outline of a cat? Maybe a pineapple? All he can discern is that it’s disproportionately bulbous and a nauseatingly bright yellow.

“That's you- see you’re smiling!” She jabs a pointed finger down at the caricature. Elias, however, cannot see where exactly his likeness falls in the tangle of yellow lines- no matter how good his vision is. 

“Indeed” he hums, filing it away with the heedless thought that she may have potential if given direction “do you have everything you came with?” Hastily he shoves the papers aside into a neat pile upon his desk and stands. 

“My bag’s in uncle Peter’s car” Esme states, looking up at him- which sparks a particularly vain pride in him at being taller than her. He blinks. 

“Very well then” quietly, he shrugs on his navy Gieves & Hawkes Coat (an anniversary gift from Peter) before reaching for his shoulder bag. Carefully he places his laptop in alongside a dozen stock sheets and stationary. 

“Who’s that?” Esme asks abruptly, catching Elias off guard as he arranges his inventory. Thoughtlessly he flicks his eyes up to see what, or rather who, has caught her attention. A smile graces his features when his gaze falls upon the girl’s inquiry. 

For a moment he stares at the striking portrait hanging off the wall “Jonah Magnus- founder of the institute- handsome devil isn’t he?” He muses to stoke his own ego, which is already massive, before attending to his bag once more. 

“He’s creepy” childish sincerity lacing her words as she eyes the canvas wearily. 

Elias can’t help but grin at the remark, “oh, same thing” he retorts under his breath before closing his bag’s clasp with a resounding click. 

———

Esme follows him out of the office like a quiet duckling. Mainly due to her suddenly taking on the need to quack softly and waddle along behind him, dramatically rising her shoulders and pointing elbows to the beat of her march. Elias on his part had no clue why she had started this or how long she'll continue to do so. The biggest thought on his mind was how glad he was to be leaving now that the hallways would be relatively quiet. 

To be seen being chased by a six year old pretending to be a baby duck won't do much for his impressive reputation. 

With a soft sigh he pauses, turning back to lock his office. Esme grows silent beside him. Well that’s a relief. If he has to experience that all weekend he might just have to flash divorce Peter and kick them out before the sun can set. Patiently he waits for the telltale chime of the door’s lock to clack in confirmation before turning over towards Rosie’s desk. 

Sitting primley upon the organised desk is the promised red folder. At least Rosie can be as accountable as ever- unlike unreliable life partners and disappearing children. Elias chews the inside of his cheek as he dwells on the thoughts, his eyes flicking down to Esme’s annoyingly innocent face then back to Rosie’s desk. 

Quietly she watches him lean over the raised counter to retrieve the aforementioned folder, and an unexpected treat in the form of an old, hard boiled lolly from the jar Rosie keeps. 

“Here” he offers the wrapped confectionery that Rosie has for waiting visitors. No one ever really partakes in her generosity but he must say he’s partial to stealing one on his way out. Though he doesn’t tell her this fact. 

Esme's face lights up with surprise at the gift, reaching up and thanking him excitedly. At least she has some manners and that will most likely keep her quiet for the ride home. She then balls the wrapper up in her fist and sticks the sweet jovially into her mouth before taking his hand again- though he didn’t offer it. 

Reluctantly he allows her to hold on to him as they make their way down to the front lobby, hoping against hope that they remain unseen. 

“Oh Elias!” 

So much for blasted hope. 

Unwillingly he turns, with Esme still in his grip, to confront the smug Tim drinking in the scene before him. Elias clenches his jaw before pressing forth a forced smile.

“Mr. Stoker” sometimes- just sometimes- he really envy's Peter in the aspect that he could simply vacate from any situation like bursting a soap bubble.

“Tim!” Esme cheers around the cherry red lolly and tugging at Elias’s arm with excitement. Tim of course flaps a hand at her with an obnoxiously wide grin. 

Somewhere along the portrait-strung hall Elias rolls a pair of eyes. 

“Hi!” Tim’s voice high and grating as he approaches. Then his gaze turns to Elias and the characteristic charm rolls off him like a bad smell. But Tim doesn’t smell bad. He smells of aftershave and really good tea. “Jon wanted me to talk to you about some trip to a sister foundation to check out-“

“Could you get Jon to email me?” Elias interrupts, the irritation of anyone’s, let alone Tim’s, company at this moment grating on his already tense nerves. 

“Oh- sure, going home so soon?” Tim asks, eyes darting to the wall clock and back again. 

“Yes, prior responsibilities and all that” he tugs a little at the small hand joined in his to emphasise his point. 

“Right, well- i'll go tell Jon-“ Tim nods, thrusting his thumb over his shoulder back towards the way he came “be seeing you” he smiles before dragging his gaze down to the child “bye Esme!”

“Bye Tim!” She chimes back with equal excitement. Elias tries not to let his disdain show up too much on his face as Tim turns back toward the Archives. 

Without leaving room for another quick chitchat in the halls he tugs Esme gently to follow him towards the institute's front steps. 

———

The thought of needing a car seat is absurd really but at what age does a child technically not need one? Isn’t it illegal? Possibly? But when has that particular fact of life ever bothered him? In his day they had children dangling off carriages or walking barefoot in the streets to where they needed to be. Now he’s sitting here cautiously eyeing how Esme has the seat belt hooked under her armpit because it kept sitting uncomfortably against her neck. We’re children her age even allowed to sit on the front seat anymore?

He shakes the incredulous thoughts from his mind. Who is possibly going to stop him for driving with a child in the front seat? She’s got a seatbelt on- that’s all that really matters. 

No- what really matters is focusing on the road and not at what Esme is reaching for on the dash; the radio. Oh maybe he should be a little more attentive to her musical choices as some distasteful pop comes on over the speakers. 

Though it seems to appease her. Ignoring it, he just grips the steering wheel a little tighter than an emotionally stable man would and flicks on the indicator. 

During the drive he categorically lists all the tedious little hoops he has to jump through upon crossing the threshold. Let it not be said that he isn’t a meticulously calculating man. First on his list is setting up the guest room for Esme- who is currently singing her heart out to some overzealous tune that isn’t terribly appropriate for a girl her age to be chanting. Though, he supposes, that is the way of the world now: overtly freeing and equally confining at the same time. 

Secondly he must start dinner, the salmon he promised Peter before he departed; leaving Esme in his care. Third on the list is to watch Peter hopefully choke on a fish bone. Fourth being to oversee whatever Jon is proposing and finally, get himself a bloody drink. Not necessarily in that order. 

The lights are still off when he pulls up outside the stately residence. It’s pristine, egg shell exterior blending in with the many other houses that it sits snugly between, and Elias feels a seed of disdain germinate inside him. Peter isn’t home. He’s not surprised but still he isn’t immune to bitterness at the revelation. Hiding his rising venom under a calm exterior, he helps Esme unbuckle herself from the seat and leads her up the porch steps, fishing the keys from his pocket. 

“Shoes” Elias states mindlessly as he removes his own polished oxfords the moment they cross the threshold. Esme complies. Then in an irritatingly sweet exposure of childish ignorance, she places her tiny plimsolls down next to his on the shoe rack. He simply rolls his eyes before leading her through the hall, up the bespoke oaken stairs that positively scream wealth. 

Across the landing he takes her, pointing out the bathroom and the door leading to his study as they go, before stopping at the guest bedroom. With little fanfare he enters, flicking on the overhead light and noting the distinct lack of any personality to the rock salt colour walls. He smiles, thinking about how perfectly it placates the soul with the noticeable absence of life. Plus obnoxiously coloured rooms strain his eyes and give the most horrible headaches. 

“You’ll sleep in here” he comments, stepping further into the room. 

The bed is already made up from the last time it was slept in. Which was in fact, three months ago. Peter had finally returned from a short trip and on a quiet night in a rather large row had sparked over nothing important, which ended with Peter being banished to sleep in here whilst Elias sulked in their bedroom. Though of course Elias doesn’t sulk- preferring to seethe instead. 

He’s too pretty to sulk. 

Fondly, Elias folds down the Egyptian Cotton sheet and plucks a greying hair from the pillow. Esme jumps up onto the mattress beside him, spoiling his stupor. 

“Ooh sooo soft” the girl croons as she sprawls on the bed, trying to recreate a sort of duvet/snow angel. Her limbs kicking out in jolted movements and crumples the fabric. Elias watches her for a moment, not particularly impressed, before turning to the window. 

“I would help you get settled in but Peter still isn’t back with your bags” there’s a crows nest being built in the neighbours chimney stack and for a moment he adds that to his list of obligations. Notifying them won't be out of neighbourly niceties but rather the prospect of being woken at the crack of dawn by squalling crow chicks is distinctly unappealing. 

“And he's got Bruno!” Esme beams, sitting up right.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Bruno!” She repeats “he’s my dog”

Oh no. Definitely not. He did not sign up for a dog- he didn’t even sign up for a child! Whom of which has shown to be more than he can handle. No, a hard line creases his brow, he will not tolerate his home becoming a bloody petting zoo. 

Just think of the carpets.

The corner of his eye twitches with bubbling fury and looks back towards the window to rein himself in. He can't yell at a child. No. That's...wrong? 

But he can yell at his husband. Soon to be ex-husband, he thinks; mentally signing his name on the dotted line. 

Inhale. Exhale. 

“How delightful” 

“He’s only got one eye though” Esme mutters sadly, looking down at her hands. Though Elias brushes it aside, not wanting to think about the matter until he can get his hands around Peter’s neck. 

Absently he checks his watch and runs a hand through his slicked back hair. 

“Come down to the kitchen and I’ll start dinner” Elias states before turning on his heel towards the door and flicking off the lights as he goes. Esme is quick to follow. 

“What are you making?” She inquires, rushing to join him at his side as they march across the landing once more.

“Do you like salmon?”

“I don’t know” she frowns as they descend the grand stairs.

“You should” he muses, watching her grab at the spindle banister “its nice”

They quietly reach the bottom of the stairs and Elias steers her to the right, over toward the kitchen. Flicking on the bright lights with a poised wrist as they enter, sock-clad feet padding softly on the aesthetic black and white tile. 

“You sit here” he points at a chair settled against the marble island, center of the room. Slowly he begins to roll up his shirt sleeves and marches to the counter. With a little struggle she manages to balance herself in the stilted chair and watches him flit around the kitchen. 

“Juice?” Elias offers, plucking a wine glass from the cabinet as he does so.

“Yes please”

Searching, he reaches deep into the cupboard for the only plastic cup he owns and sets it beside his own glass. He then pours Esme some of Peter's orange juice because he's still bitter about the situation and gives himself a justifiable glass of wine- an oaky red from southern France, 1863. He may have to endure this torture but he doesn’t need to go through it sober. 

Esme thanks him for the juice and quietly stews in her own little happiness. 

She’s an odd child, he thinks. Far too outgoing to be properly claimed by the forsaken but yet perfectly placid to be left alone to her own devices. He wonders for a short moment as to whether this was what Peter was like as a child. Before he was truly gripped with the love for solitude. Or maybe he was always an antisocial prick. 

‘You married him’ a voice nags from somewhere deep in his subconscious ‘what does that say about you?’. Hastily, he drowns the thought with a sip of his wine, knowing in great detail the answer to that barbed question. 

A familiar silence settles over the kitchen.

“Are you my dad now?” Esme asks and Elias chokes on the deep riches on his wine. Shocked, he puts the back of his hand to his lips in a pitiful attempt to avoid looking like a fool.

“Goodness no” he manages to gasp out against his sputtering, wiping at the stray rivulets marking his chin. 

“But I’m living here” the young girl reasons as she looks up from her cup. 

“Well no-“ Elias half smiles, if that were to be the case he’d have put more effort into choking on that vintage “you’re here for the weekend and your father will come and collect you on monday to take you to his home in Adelaide”

Esme grows quiet, thoughts flickering on her face like a drive-in-movie theatre. Her screwed up concentration is rather adorable, in the way a baby unable to obtain object permanence is adorable. 

“Where’s that?” She casts her line of thought and this is where her lure lands. 

“Australia” Elias puts down his glass and folds his arms over his chest, leaning on the countertop. Settling in to observe her rather interesting cognitive process. 

“Oh…” once again Esme grows quiet, mentally reeling in her line of speculations “that’s far away, isn’t it?” 

“Very”

Her eyes turn downcast and her fingers still upon the marble counter. Elias can't help but liken her to a ‘sad cloud’. Mentally he stabs his hand at being so fanciful- perhaps the wine was a bad choice. He blinks. 

Quietly he presses his mouth into a thin line and turns back towards the counter, reaching for the fridge. He can practically hear her thinking from across the room. 

“Are you my uncle then?”

“Uhh” he pauses, head in the fridge “not exactly” 

“Why?” 

Now Elias is a prominent lover of questions, deep interrogations and thoughtful extractions though this is getting ridiculous. How many inquiries must one person have? 

“Well, your Uncle Peter is more of a first cousin, once removed type person to you” he states wistfully, pulling the salmon from the fridge along with a selection of veg.

“But i call him uncle” Esme protests, watching Elias take stock of the refrigerator. 

“Yes, but he’s your first cousin” next he moves on to purge a cabinet below the sink for some parchment paper. The tip of his tongue sweeps across his perfect teeth- the previous owner had braces in place for two years to sort out a hideous overbite and crooked incisor- as he listens to her think. 

“But he's my uncle- uncle Peter” she argues and Elias finally realises that stubbornness must be a finely bred lineage in the blood line. What ever happened to the sentimentality for children to be seen and not heard? 

“Be that as it may,” he sighs, standing up from his low crouch in front of the cupboard, “he is in fact your first cousin, once removed”

“Removed from what?”

Elias pauses for a moment as he finds himself, shockingly, unsure of the answer (much like the author). “That's besides the point” he pulls back an intimidating knife from the block and begins to sharpen it against the iron lance. 

“So who are you then?” 

The inquest causes him to think, mindlessly swiping the blade across the iron. He hadn’t given it much thought, though to be fair, he hasn’t given any of this current circumstance much thought. He creases his brow. Why did he have to pick a man with such a voracious family tree? 

Elias sighs in defeat, placing the knife and iron on the counter, “by your standards, Uncle Elias” 

The title sits awkwardly upon his head like an ill fitting crown. Instantly he decides that ‘uncle’ is a rather ugly word for him to be associated with and should never be identified by it. 

“Why?” Again with the questions. So he straightens his stance and smiles, turning to her. 

“Because Peter and I are married” 

“Really!” She gasps with an incredulous air of excitement, tilting herself on the chair precariously to lean upon the marble with splayed hands. 

Elias hums wiry agreement, eyeing his ring as he brings a carrot to the sink to be washed. Four months and counting- not accepting the two “trial” marriages before that. 

“I can't wait to marry a prince!” She squeals from her chair which leads to Elias pondering how Peter is more of a bedraggled sea sponge than a prince. 

Ah, l’amore. 

It is in that moment he hears Peter’s heavy tread upon the porch steps. Finally. 

The front door opens slowly and Elias instinctively hunches his shoulders, waiting for the wild scattering of nails against the hardwood floor of this so-called dog. But the comfortable quiet of the house ripples back into complacency, pooling around the heavy tread of Peters boot clad feet. Elias feels his teeth clench, he knows the bloody shoe rule- he tells him every day for god’s sake. A quick glance through one of the limited hall photos proves that he is in fact alone- save for a pink duffle bag over his shoulder. 

“Afternoon” Peter greets as he enters the room, laying the duffle bag on the island and slipping a hand around Elias’s waist to press a quick kiss to his temple. His husband neither accepts or declines the domestic offering. 

“Where’s the dog?” Elias accuses under his breath, his tone a tad sharp as he washes over a zucchini. 

“What dog?” Peter asks back, unsure why they’re whispering. His hand is still cinched around his husband’s waist as if it was natural for it to rest there. 

“The-“

“Bruno!” 

They both turn to look at Esme's outburst to see her holding a ragged teddy bear aloft like in that movie, the Shakespeare one with the lions. Elias had watched it when it first was released; a marvel of artistic capability to make drawings move but tedious all the same- as if lions could engage in politics. Even the humans in parliament can barely engage in politics for pity's sake. 

Elias sighs, turning back to the sink and shooting his Husband a side glance, “nevermind” 

Peter removes his hand, trailing it across Elias’s back in favour of procuring his own drink. Not passing a thought to his husband’s stony silence or the fact he’s still wearing his boots in the house. 

“May i go to the bathroom?” Esme asks, politely as usual. Peter turns to regard her from over his shoulder as Elias does very much the same. 

“Do you remember where it is?” He asks pointedly, shutting off the tap and reaching for a tea towel to dry his hands. 

“Yeah” she states casually as she begins to clamber her way down from the chair- that teddy, Bruno, clutched is her grip. 

Peter watches her amble out towards the lobby, up the stairs. Absently he reaches for the opened bottle of Sauvignon and inspects it before pouring himself a portion. He’s never been a fan of reds. They always leave him with the ghosting of a headache but he's never argued against Elias’s tastes. 

“Mikaele asked after you” he states absently, leaning against the counter whilst swirling the sauvignon gently in his glass. 

Elias does not respond. 

“I said you were fine and told him you appreciated the cufflinks” Placidly he brings the glass to his lips, observing Elias’s hardened silence with caution as he pulls the cutting board from its holster against the back wall. Peter takes a hasty swig knowing the brewing storm that is his husband won't go down as smoothly. “Elias?” He places his glass on the counter with a gentle ‘thunk’ and stands up a little straighter. A heavy sigh escaping him as he does so. 

Elias simply ignores him as he grabs his knife and a stray zucchini. 

“You can't honestly still be mad about this morning?” 

Elias finally turns to look at him, stare icy and jaw clenched as he indelicately slices the tip of the zucchini off with a quick movement of his knife. 

Peter swallows hard around the loaded action; thinking a little more about his next words. Since, he reminds himself, Elias did have a knife. “The situation was completely out of my hands” 

“You could have rang me a little bit earlier- so I could prepare!” Elias finally retorts, squaring his shoulders with all the ease of a poised jackal. His stare hard. 

“I was processing” he tries, avoiding the icy glare of his staggeringly pissed off husband. 

“It’s a two hour drive!” The smaller man’s voice raises in frustration as his grip on the knife tightens. 

Peter pauses, “...it was a shock”

Elias barks out a bitter laugh, swiftly cutting up the remainder of the zucchini and reaching for a carrot. The sudden burst of faint mirth prickling uncomfortably in the air like bonfire smoke that’s caught the wind and directed straight for you. 

Peter shuffles on his feet and crosses his arms over his chest, defensive, “Well what do you want me to tell you?”

A half lidded stare of contempt is thrown his way over Elias’s shoulder, his frown prominent and outstretched. Peter just sighs in response before rubbing a hand over his eyes. 

“I’m sorry” it’s laborious and over-pronounced in a way that makes Elias’s brow quirk. He’s quiet for a moment. 

“We’ll see” the man states and turns back to his veg. 

“I said I was sorry- what more do you want?” Peter steps into Elias’s space, no longer heeding the knife in his grip. After years of being in Mr. Bouchard’s company, both professionally and intimately, Peter has come to know that if Elias was going to stab him he would have done so before he’d even spoken. Perhaps Esme's presence acted as a mitigator to his natural implosions. 

“Nothing” Elias shrugs, keeping his eyes downcast and non-pulsed. Obviously, deeply irate with the whole affair. 

“Elias…” he throws caution to the wind and wraps his arms around his husband, “i am sorry” he whispers in his ear, resting his head on Elias’s shoulder “truly”, a precise kiss is placed to his temple, feeling the fire inside his husband smouldering down to embers.  
Peter leans further onto him, peering close to his face “hmmm?”

Elias turns to him, expression baring the tiniest smile. Stare still hard but softening; just a tad. 

A well earned success. 

“Oh get off me you oaf” Elias shrugs at his great bulk but Peter just leans further into him, laughing quietly into his oiled back hair. 

“You’re ridiculous” he muses, squeezing him a little tighter. What was in that wine?

“Peter! Watch the knife!” Elias yelps as he sticks the razor sharp utensil out as far as his arms can whilst confined in Peter’s grip. Slowly the larger man relinquishes his grip but maintains a loose entanglement of limbs, watching over Elias’ shoulder as he reaches for his wine. The faint sound of a toilet flushing can be heard from the upstairs bathroom. “I’m serious, let go of me now- she'll be back soon” he orders against the rim of his glass. 

With a final kiss to his cheek, acting as a stamp of domestic bliss, and steps away. Taking his chilled aura with him. 

“So how was the office with your little co-worker?” Peter inquires, taking up his perch once more against the counter. Reaching for his glass absently. 

“Why do you think i opened the Cabernet Sauvignon?”

“That bad?” 

“Mmm” Elias hums as he lays down a bed of freshly sliced vegetables upon the parchment. He sweeps over him with a quick side glance, “you owe me”

Peter laughs behind the rim of his glass. 

“I washed my hands!” Esme announces as she enters, brandishing her hands for inspection. That threadbare teddy tucked sadly under her arm. 

Elias casts a quick glance upstairs, through the ingeniously stored encyclopaedia of eyes sitting upon the cabinet, to check the taps are turned off. 

“Very good” he praises awkwardly and turns back to his fish, “Peter be a dear and take Esme's belongings up to the spare room” quietly he suggests, laying the salmon neatly over the bed of veg with diligent care. 

“Hmm? Oh-“ Peter puts down his drink “yes, sure” striding over to the marble island and picks up the pink duffle bag. The man then awkwardly walks past his estranged niece as she stares brazenly up at him- perhaps it was a bad idea to leave her in the care of the beholding all day. 

“Guess what happened to me today Uncle Peter?” Her voice piercing his sudden unease whilst matching his lumbering stride as he exits the room. 

Elias watches them for a moment, soaking in the telltale discomfort Peter displays as Esme dogs him with her wild ramblings. Detailing her venture to the Archives and all about meeting Jon! And Martin! And Tim! Did you know Tim’s got a tattoo on his arm? He showed me and it's a star! Oh- and then Uncle Elias let me do drawings on the floor and then he let me have a lolly-!

Fondly he smiles as he tunes out her endless garbling like radio static on a broken stereo, coming back to his own space. Neatly he wraps the salmon portions up in parchment, ready for the oven. Set the timer and close the door. Task complete.

Indulgently he reaches for his glass and takes a few moments to enjoy the silence. Sipping at the warm tones of the aged concoction, letting it drown his pallet before swallowing, thinking about the remaining duties burdening him. 

Sighing, he places his glass down on the side before heading upstairs, feeling a headache begin to pinch at his temples. 

Elias then casually pops his head into the spare room to take in the sight of Peter sitting on the bed looking like he’d rather be disemboweling himself than hear more about Jon’s stories. The young girl is standing on the mattress to be at eye level, hands moving about animatedly and talking a mile a minute. Elias takes a mental snapshot to save for later.

“Having fun?” Peter shoots him an exhausted glare, causing a grin to stretch his features “I have some work to see to, will you be alright watching her for ten minuets? Thank you dear”

He’s gone before Peter can draw a breath of response, closing the door and striding across the landing to his study. Partially pleased with giving Peter a taste at his own gruelling medicine. 

———

Many times Peter has felt the need to just shroud himself in the embrace of his god. Like the time he dropped a jar of Hellman’s mayonnaise in the middle of Tesco- drawing all those eyes and attention. He shivers at the needless memory. 

But this though. This is cruel and unusual. His senses itch with static at Esme's every word. 

Therefore he's seriously contemplating how bad Elias would react if he were to just step into his own isolated domain for the next two days. Then maybe a few days after so Elias can calm down. It would be an instant divorce for sure, but he could take that. This strange torture though is like having his teethpulled by an assortment of social expulsions that this child is throwing at him.

He wishes he’d have thought ahead to bring his wine with him, just so he’d have a headache as a distraction. No Lukas should have this much energy, period. 

It must be a fault from her father's side of the family. 

“Do you have a library?” She asks abruptly, the query plucked from her mind like a muscle from a shell. Her eyes are boring into his, whiskey brown with flecks of dark amber positively scoring into him. He’d feel nervous if he hadn’t experienced the same gaze from Elias when he’s a little drunk and trying to be intimidating. 

Peter thinks about it for a moment. There is a library in the house, or rather in Elias’ study- but that’s his husband's domain.

“No, I have a boat” he answers in kind, trying to be polite. 

Then, impossibly, Esme's eyes get bigger. “Really?!” The amazement in her tone is something he's never heard when revealing that nugget of information. 

It was rather nice, in a weird, unsettling sort of way.

“Is it big?” She probes and Peter can't help but feel her grin grow infectious. Esme settles down by his side, awaiting more details.

“Very big” he elaborates, gesturing outwards with his hands slightly. 

“Are you a pirate?” Esme gasps “have you seen a mermaid!”

“Oh yes, the captain” it's partially true he supposes- his ship carries valuable loot and takes lives like any seafaring vagabond, “and i've seen many mermaids” well- monsters of the vast that bump up against the Tundra’s stern when crossing the open ocean. 

They’re the closest thing he can discern as being mermaids; aquatic and swift although their gargled scream can turn a man’s stomach more than their carnal desires. He should talk to Simon about them really.

“Have you been to Australia?” She inquires rather off track, her tone a little softer than her preceding inquiries. 

“A few times”

Her feet start to swing over the side of the mattress, hands coming to rest, joined, in her lap. Though her eyes remain as piercing as ever but perhaps a little clouded with a familiar sadness. 

“Have you ever been to In-de-glade?” She forces out the word, unsure of the syllables as her tongue trips over them. 

“Indeglade?” He mirrors, brows furrowing. 

Had he been there? As a seasoned seafarer he's familiar with every port and dock the continental world can offer. So surely he’d have remembered docking at such an odd sounding place. He scratches at his beard. “I don’t think so”

“Oh” she deflates slightly. 

For a slither of a moment he is shrouded with the familiar sensation of rolling loneliness, cold and empty. It’s like honey ambrosia melting upon his senses as it permeates the room. Briefly, he gets to understand how similar they are in blood and bond to their patron. 

It’s no childhood really- especially for one so bold. 

“Have you ever been on a boat?” Peter asks, ill-practiced in the act of pulling someone from their solitude. Coldly, his psyche itches with a voracious static fuzz at his refusal to dig deep into her sorrow. He will not be as cannibalistic as his ancestors.

Esme shakes her head in answer. Hesitantly, he wrings his hands together, twisting the ring around his finger absentmindedly. 

“Sunday, would you like to see the boat?” Her eyes light up with a shy glint “have a little tour maybe?” As he presses the idea further he can feel the fog of her despair dissipate like waters receding on the shore. 

“Will I see any mermaids?” Peter can’t help the smile that spreads across his features at her innocence. Envying her luck to get away from the burdens of their bloodline. 

“Maybe” Peter has always had an inclination to cling to solid facts like gold rushed through rivers but he can't deny how stretching the truth can be equally as useful. Especially when it sparked reactions like Esme’s; her hopeful eyes glinting as her grin widens almost maniacally. 

When had he ever given anyone a tour of the Tundra, besides the newly forsaken crew? Elias has been aboard a few times- in their early days of their first marriage and the notion to ‘christen’ the ship was an ingenious idea.

“Dinner in two minuets” Elias notes chiperly as he comes to stand at the bedroom threshold. Looking slightly less irate than when he had first come home. 

Peter nods, rising from the mattress with little fanfare as Esme follows suit.

———

“So how is Salesa?” Elias asks absently, spearing some salmon with his fork. 

Beside him Esme plucks at her meal, unsure of what to make of the fish. Begrudgingly, Elias had helped her cut up her meal into more manageable chunks- like a subservient mother, he thought bitterly, or a nanny!

“Good, says he's got a new instalment coming next September that you’ll be interested in” Peter discloses, eyes not moving from his plate. Elias smirks around his forkful. 

“I’m never interested in anything he dabbles in”

“I told him that- but he was adamant” his husband hums quietly from across the table, watching Peter take a sip at his drink. 

Reservedly Elias goes back to his own meal, enjoying the way his fish simply flakes under the carve of his knife. Cooked to perfection if he must say. With a sweeping glance he takes note of Esme’s progress with her meal; noting her expression of contentment. He’ll take it as a compliment. 

“Did he not wager anything with you?” Gaze returning to his plate.

“Surprisingly not-“ Peter pauses, fork partway to his mouth “though he tried to convince me to ship some record player on the next trip”

Elias looks up, intrigued “record player?”

“Mmhmm, but you know…” Peter takes a moment to eye Esme sitting to his left, having trouble spearing the flaky fish “odd” 

“I can imagine- probably reported in the archives somewhere if i really Look” 

Peter nods once before reaching for his glass again, partial to the red’s avocation to the salmon. As he aforementioned; he will never argue against Elias’ tastes. “Direct your archivist to give it a once over” 

“Jon isn’t anywhere ready for me to start directing him” Eliast snorts, mindlessly carving at his food “he's not as intrepid as Ger- she was” 

Instinctively, Elias places his cutlery down and reaches for his drink- ignoring Peter's obnoxious silence. She is still a sore spot between them that they haven’t managed to poke at without bleeding for it. Emotionally and physically. 

“Can we go see Jon tomorrow?” Esme asks, regarding her zucchini with some contempt. Breaking the awkward tension looming over the table. 

Elias thinks over the question with his lips pressed to the rim of his glass. It would be a bad choice for productivity, definitely. Since her presence had derailed his archival staff so expertly this morning in a matter of moments. Maybe her talents for disruption should be accredited to the Desolation instead of the One Alone, he ponders. Though with her impoundment of work being a heavy con to the idea, the pros would weigh highly due to him actually being able to get some work done. 

He doesn’t even bother to think about Peter taking charge of her for a full day- that would surely end in disaster or a flood or a fire or something entirely worse. Once again he thinks of his newly reupholstered carpets. 

“Maybe...clear your plate and we shall see” 

———

He’s lived a long life. Built an empire, watched it grow and gained more power that any simpering human could ever hope to reach. He’s been married and divorced (the amount of times doesn’t matter) and blessedly, never fathered children. 

So to find himself in such a scene of domesticity is rather… intense. Not in a fearful way. Just new. 

“Teeth brushed?” Elias asks as he helps Esme clamber up into the awaiting bed. He knows the answer to that question- he watched her brush around foam in her mouth like a rabid dog whilst helping remove her hair from its high ponytail. But, he supposes, there’s nothing wrong with a checklist. 

“Yeah” her voice is a little sluggish as the action of the day finally catches up with her tiny body. 

Of course he had to get stuck with this chore. Of course Peter had to get a phone call the moment Elias had announced ‘bedtime’. Of course he had to give him that glare that said ‘this is important- don’t disturb me’ before leaving for the back porch. Of course Elias had not been allowed to kick up a fuss because there is a child in his presence- a child burdened to him by his detestable in-laws. 

“Pyjamas?” Yes, they’re a horrid dull purple that hurts Elias’s eyes to gaze at directly. A fashion nightmare. No doubt an heirloom passed down from child to child in the Lukas household. To be honest, the ugly garments could have been about when he first met Mordechai- god forbid their washed out fabrics be older. 

Esme simply nods through a yawn, seemingly unperturbed by the hideous clothes. 

“Teddy?” 

“His name is Bruno!” The tiniest bit of Lukas stubbornness lashing out from behind tired eyes. Was Peter this adorably bothersome? Refusing bedtime? Though no- on second thought, Peter would have been all too eager to fall away into the wholly separate landscape of solitude. 

Elias sighs quietly, pulling back from helping her with the covers, “Bruno, then?” 

“Yes” she cuddles the threadbare teddy to her chest like a Goliath strangling a lamb and Elias grimaces. 

“Comfy?” Exhausted, he checks over Esme as she sinks lower into the plush pillows, brunette locks spread akimbo on the cotton, giving off a rather odd effect. As if she is cradled in a halo of hair. 

The girl simply nestles deeper into the plush refuge, cracking a exuberant smile “yes”

“Well, goodnight” sharply he turns on his heel, making for the door. Impassive to the girl behind him as he reaches for the light. 

“Wait!”

Elias has to suppress the thrill that her fearful tone gives. He pauses and turns. 

“Hmm?” From across the room she is staring at him with impossibly wide eyes, reflecting with delectable terror. Patiently he bites his tongue and swallows down deep rooted impulses. No child of the forsaken should possess such vibrant emotions like apprehension and comfort and fear. 

That must be from her father's side of the family. 

She looks so small, crowded against the pillows like a little parcel wrapped in cotton; snug. Though the distress emanating from her is as heavy as finely aged merlot. 

“Could you read me a story?” Her voice is shy as Elias tries not to let his annoyance show. “Please?” She pleads quietly, the low sensations of fear ebbing around the room serving as a dessert he’d have to decline. 

Though he has no qualms about tormenting the souls of man to the point of destruction, picking on children is a bit far for his tastes. Not to mention they are technically family- in a far off, disjointed way and honouring bonds is how his very existence came to be. 

It is also how he came to be looking after a six year old, but beggars can't be choosers. 

The dark. The eye sees it clear as day, basking in the forefront of her mind. Fearful of the inkinesss of night and all that may or may not be secluded it. How delightfully human of her, to fear an entity that goes hand in hand with her own familial patronage. For being blinded of all light can be a very lonely experience. 

Christ he needs to stop listening to Peter’s taunting monologues when looking for a meal. 

Elias takes pity on her, remembering distastefully of being so young and human; so afraid of all the things that went bump in the night. Though now he converses with monsters worse than the absence of light and creatures that can bend sanity like a cheap fork over tea and scones. Times really do change. 

He regards her request for a moment, unsure. He has read many stories in his long, long life. Retained them and even written a few, with some carved into his memory like a chisel to stone. But they may not be what she is searching for. 

What was it that Jon was blathering about to her? Dragons and swords and princesses? Fictional drivel at best- but if it's the price for getting her to sleep then who is he to deny her?

Plus it would mean voiding the dark of an easy meal. 

“Hmm” he ponders theatrically, tapping his sock clad toe to the cream carpet. “A story?” 

“Please” Esme's voice is mousy quiet as she remains swallowed behind the duvet. 

Reveling in the chance to actually, properly loom over someone, he fixes her with a well practiced stare. Eyebrows cocked and lips tugged into a not-quite-there smile, “just the one”, he states with a raised finger to emphasise his point. 

Her face lights up like a (seasonally out of place) Christmas tree. 

Then Elias perches himself upon the mattress beside her small frame, halling his legs up to lay parallel with the duvet and crossing them over at the ankle. Getting comfy. With a slight sigh he reclines and rolls his shoulders dramatically. 

Beside him, Esme is instantly at his hip; resting her head against his stomach to settle herself. Her eyes have gained back a spark of that admirable curitosity, though he can already see a lethargic weight take over her movements as she simply leans into him. 

After a moment's hesitation, Elias rests his palm against her head. An unsure act of consolation. 

He then takes in a half breath and begins to spool a story like silvered record tape, “there was once a kingdom; vast and verdant with rolling fields of bluebells and flourishing forests. Amongst the forest, however there lived a little girl in the tiniest cottage-“ he pauses to see her still looking up him, enthralled, “and her name was Esme” 

Her pleased gasp almost makes up for his own hatred for playing into such whimsy. Almost. 

Elias then pats her head slightly, running his fingers through her curls as he rolls out a story like a scrolling cinema reel. Listening to Esme's minor reactions at every little twist he may add, verbally coiling her like a serpent into a lull of dreamlike heaviness. 

It is only when he comes to notice Esme is delicately snoring against his hip does he fully realise they are no longer alone. 

Peter stands in the doorway like a spectre. Smiling that way he does when trying not to look as troubled as he really is. Elias wonders fleetingly to who was on the other end of that phone call but he flicks it away- Peter habitually guards his secrets fiercely. Much like himself. It is a rule as deeply ingrained in them as to love and honour. The simple idiom of Do Not Dabble In My Business And I Will Not In Yours. A marriage, thrice rebuilt, constructed on the boxing of secrets and closed doors. 

Elias reflects the expression back at him with practiced ease. 

“Didn’t know you were so good at bedtime stories” Peter rumbles as he exits his roost by the door, footsteps heavy on the carpet. 

“You never asked for them” Elias retorts, greatly equipped with verbal artillery. Peter just snorts and shoves his hands into his pockets as he draws closer. For a moment they peer down to Esme's slumbering form tucked up innocently by Elias’ side. A lamb in a lions den.

“Help me get out” Elias whispers, reaching over to tenderly push against Esme’s loose grip. Peter merely gives his husband a shoulder to grab as he hauls himself out from the girl's limpet grip. Both of them going rigid as she makes a soft, disgruntled, noise at being moved before settling once more into the weight of the duvet.

Quietly Elias finds his balance on both feet and turns on the bedside lamp. 

“You’ve turned the lamp on” Peter points out annoyingly.

“I know” 

“Why?” 

Elias doesn’t move his gaze from the child’s steady rise and fall of rib cage. Her blood running sluggishly as her eyes flit about endlessly beneath her eyelids, deep in the REM stages of slumber. His features relax minutely. 

“She’s scared of the dark” 

Peter eyes him slowly, expression unreadable as he watches the side profile of his husband. His gaze burning a hole into Elias’s temple. He scoffs quietly.

“You’re growing soft in your old age” 

Elias instantly turns to him, glaring, “watch it” he warns. Then sharply turning for the door. 

“I mean it” Peter continues, trailing after him “you’ll be getting all broody on me next” 

Elias scowls as he turns in the doorway, abhorring the very idea of it. Them, married with kids. Adoption certificates and school reports worming their vile way into his paperwork like maggots. Imagine the mess. 

Thespian-like, he rolls his eyes (as many as possible) to shake the idea from his mind like scrambling the dice during a game of crabs. Peter just grins at him as he looms in the threshold beside him. 

“I just think trapping a person with their worst fear is a lazy way at getting a meal” the corners of his eyes crinkle “wouldn’t you agree?” Elias hums as he flicks the lightswitch- both men throwing a glance to Esme's prone form. 

“That was Conrad’s doing” Peter grunts, turning his eyes back to Elias. 

Whom just jabs a finger into the air like a teacher demanding respect to their all knowing prowess, “you funded it”

“A tiny bit”

“I helped you with the paperwork, remember?” Elias smirks, taking off across the landing. 

Peter quietly closes the door and follows after him toward their bedroom, “That's besides the point” 

Stubbornness, Elias muses as he enters the room and heads straight for the en suite, his father's blood but his mother's doing. Peter's footsteps aren’t far behind. 

“Look all I’m saying is that a day with her and you’re being” he pauses as he steps into the small bathroom, leaning against the door frame “... considerate”

Elias looks up at him, hands seamlessly unbuttoning his shirt as the shower chokes to life, glare icy. 

“I could say the same thing about you Mr. Would-you-like-a-tour-of-my-boat?” Errantly he shrugs his shirt from his shoulders, revealing his unmarred skin to the warm mist gathering under the shower spray. Peter’s eyes sweep over the offered flesh passively, thinking of a response to the barbed comment. 

“She showed an interest” he reasons, scratching at his beard.

Elias just hums precariously as he folds his shirt into the hamper, clearly bored of the conversation. 

“Are you going to be loitering all evening?” he asks, reaching for his belt buckle. Pausing only to regard Peter, eye to eye. The man just relaxes deeper into the door frame like a cat admiring a sunbeam. 

“I’m just enjoying the show” he states, voice low with unprecedented arousal as he eyes the supple lines of his husband's torso.

Elias just snorts. Incredulous. 

He really shouldn’t let him drink Sauvignon so late in the afternoon- the headache gives him irritating ideas. 

“If you really think you’re going to get a leg over after the stunt you pulled today then I may have to reconsider your mental stability” 

“I said I was sorry” Peter bemoans as Elias simply rolls his eyes before stepping away from the doorway, expression shifting “how about I make it up to you?”

Elias snorts again. Incredulity doubled. He stands firm on the spot, glaring up at his advancing husband like a cornered animal. Peter’s expression falters and Elias grins. 

“You’ll have to try harder than that” he states, unimpressed as Peter stands before him. pouting slightly. “Now is there anything else you want before i kick you out?” 

Peter shifts his focus minutely, the way he does when annoyed but trying not to show it. A crippling tell for any seasoned gambler. 

“Yeah- i need a piss actually” he informs, brushing past his husband in favour of the toilet. 

Elias only grimaces in reply. 

———

He watches Elias appear from the bathroom, hair lacking its oiled shine as he wanders around the bedroom clad in his black silk pyjamas and matching robe. 

Peter is laying in bed, wearing only a pair of cotton soft pyjama bottoms as he watches his husband beyond the covers. Elias flits about with purpose, toothbrush hanging from his mouth as he sets order to chaos; taking Peter's folded clothes to the hamper, drawing the curtains and turning off the overhead light. It’s a routine Peter has become accustomed to, watching the watcher as he performs such domesticity in its most vulnerable form- snug in his robe and lip faintly marked with toothpaste froth. 

Quietly Elias ducks into the bathroom before emerging again, the light turned out and mouth wiped clean. He shrugs his robe from his shoulders in an unfairly elegant way before setting it over the back of the armchair sitting under the window. Peter watches him as he makes his way to the shared bed and reaches for the bedside table. 

“You’re staring” Elias states pointedly, not looking up from his fiddling with the alarm clock in his hands. 

Peter shifts his gaze up to the ceiling. 

“Ever heard of Indeglade?” He asks after a moment, contemplating.

“No” Elias doesn’t look away from his clock. 

“Esme was asking if I’d been” Peter listens to his husband winding up the mechanical gears “couldn’t be like that Sannikov land?” He had been there or rather he hadn’t, depending on whether it had actually existed at all. It’s icy port even raising his own hairs with a chill, whether it be of the cold air or the wrongness of it all or the simple knowledge of what would happen to that sap of a boy that trailed after her like a lamb to slaughter. 

“I doubt the spiral is trying to lure a child so clearly of the forsaken” Elias drags him from his own stewing thoughts as he sets his clock back on the table and peels back the covers.

“She is quite-“ Peter pauses to wiggle his fingers in front of his face, making a weird expression “though isn’t she?” He looks over to his husband, who is kneeling on the mattress.

“I don’t know what-“ Elias repeats the movement, cracking a slight smile “is” 

Peter keeps his gaze fixed on him and takes a breath. 

“You know...odd- fantastical” 

“I think that’s just how children are,” Elias grabs at his pillow and settles it against the headboard, fluffing up its contents in the way he likes.

“How would you know?” Peter watches him settle himself like a nesting weasel. Another one of those odd rituals of Elias's that he's become accustomed to, the action being so routine that he often forgets how cute it is. Elias flicks his gaze to him as he turns to finally lay down beside his husband.

If he had picked up on Peter's thoughts he doesn’t say anything. Just lays back on his Vienna silk pillow. 

“Well I suppose I was one at some point” Elias muses, sorting out his pyjama collar, smoothing it down. 

“No-“ Peter chuffs out a laugh, looking up at the bone white ceiling “you were born at age sixty and just kept going” 

Elias makes an unpleasant face “what happened to you being nice to me?”

“I didn’t say i was going to be nice”

“Well this is a valiant effort at making an apology” says Elias, his tone less sharp than his weighted words.

“You didn’t accept my other ones” Peter turns his gaze to him, exasperated. 

“Shagging in a shower is not as good as an apology as you seem to think it is”

Peter goes quiet, eyes still trained on Elias's with stony silence. His set jaw. Thinking.

“So you don’t know what Indeglade is?” He asks, brows pinched as the tension between them dissipates like fog in the sunlight. 

Elias reacts in kind to the change, propping himself up on his elbow and crowding close to Peter's side, “no”

His husband makes a noise at the back of his throat in uncertain contemplation. Usually in the rare occasion when Elias doesn’t Know something he feels rather superior, like he's got the upper hand in not knowing something before Elias is even aware there is also an absence in his knowledge. But now it makes him uneasy.

“In what context did she ask?” Elias presses closer to his husband's bare chest, snaking a hand to the impressive bulk of his bicep. His eyes prying and dimly hungry in the thirst to solve this stubborn conundrum. 

Peter’s brows pinch, focusing back on his husband's introspective gaze. “Well, she asked about Australia, then this Indeglade place”

Beside him Elias chuckles out a quiet laugh, mouth turning upward with a mirthful smile. He smells of fresh Colgate and that fancy shampoo he uses, the pomegranate one. 

“You twit” he jibes, “She was saying Adelaide”

“How do you know?” Peter asks, a little affronted.

“She wants to know about her father” he elaborates. That eager sharpness to his eyes now dimmed with overbearing elation. As if he’d just taken a drag on a guilty cigarette. Peter smiles back at him, making a noise of understanding. 

He then jostles his body in the bed slightly, adjusting his arm to slide under Elias and haul him closer. His husband gives in to being manhandled, simply moving to the lumbering pull and bracing his forearms against Peter’s broad chest. They settle together. 

“Have you met him?” Elias pries, hand coming up to play with a white streak in Peter's greying beard- freshly cleaned and bristled with the sparse use of wax from this morning’s impromptu grooming. 

“Once” 

“Hmm?” Elias probes without shifting his focus from tugging at the white strands. 

Peter really hates he married such a gossip. 

“no you don’t” Elias mutters as he twists the wiry hair between his fingers. 

Peter dips his hand under his nightshirt to pinch him above the hip with affectionate disapproval. Elias simply flicks his gaze up to him momentarily before turning back to his inspection of the beard. 

“Oh, skinny, blonde-“

“Sizing him up where you?” He ignores Elias’ needling. 

“-Australian berk”

“I’m assuming he didn’t stay long,” the smaller man notes, his tone light with confidence as his silk pyjamas shimmer in the warm lamplight. Peter does his best not to linger.

“Something about him not wanting to live in dreary England but she did and- “ his tone turns a shade affronted “to be honest, I don’t think he appreciated the Lukas way of life” 

Elias stifles a choked out laugh, earning the heat of Peter’s glare and his expression turns something akin to shy guilt. Though never bold face guilt. Elias is too proud to ever feel the weight of shame over anything. 

“Oh don’t be silly” he grouses, “I like… some aspects of your family” 

“The money for starters” Peter shifts his weight on the mattress, moving Elias with him as he rolls his shoulders. Placidly stareing up past his husband's ear, eyeing a patch in the ceiling that is no different to its encompassing infrastructure. 

Elias rolls his eyes.

“And the people” he tugs on Peter's facial hair to refocus his attention “that one from the last funeral- black hair and curly moustache?”

“The butler?” Unimpressed, Peter drawls.

“Yes, he was lovely” Peter’s frown deepens and Elias’s grin widens before leaning in impishly “oh come on, what happened next?” 

The larger man sighs and stares back at the ceiling; preferring to avoid Elias’s gaze when he’s feeding him tripe snatches of gossip. The family would be appalled to know he’s just giving secrets away like this. 

“I think they split quick and he left for Australia before Isabel knew she was knocked up”

“What a scandal'' Elias mocks but no, even though the thought of prenuptial pregnancy is a societal abhor, for a Lukas having to raise a child by oneself is often appraised. It is after all, a rather lonely process. “Did he know?” 

“I’m not sure” Peter gives the answer honestly purely because he just doesn’t care to dabble in his family's affairs. If he happened to be home during an obstinately social gathering and overheard a tidbit of any news he won’t dig for elaboration or dismiss it outright. His family's business is their business- a respect they give to him in kind. 

“What's his name?” Elias, though, loves to dig. To find every morsel and connect the dots. Peter can already feel the faint static against his ears as Elias leans upon him eagerly. One might even get the foolish impression that Elias isn’t still mildly pissed with his husband with the way he's pandering to him like an affectionate cat. 

“Don’t” Peter glowers. 

“I’m not doing anything” Elias pulls back, feigning innocence. His grin gleaming. He tugs on Peter’s beard once again. He really shouldn’t let him drink merlot before seven. 

“You’re prying” he growls, more flirtation than intimidation “like a little weasel”

Elias’ eyes light up with the accusation, not resisting Peter's wandering grip on his back. Challenge accepted. He leans back down, bracing his weight on Peter’s naked chest; smile unfaltering. 

“Oh I could really pry, if you want me to” slowly he starts easing into Peter's mind like an oyster shucker wedging itself through the hard outer shell. The static wheeze of recoiling tape starting to screech in Peter's ears, a warning whine as Elias chips away at his temporal lobe, scratching at the hippocampus like a child poking a stick in an anthill.

“Harry Wellop” Peter spits, not wanting to endure his husband’s cruel party trick; throwing the information in his smug face as the pressure recedes almost instantly. “I hate it when you do that” he rolls his shoulders again, wanting to settle back into relative comfort. Needing to shake the unpleasant feeling of being Seen from his shaken mind. 

Elias just hums non-commitently, turning his gaze downward and tugging slightly at Peter’s beard, “this needs a trim”

“No it doesn’t” he's right. It doesn’t. After having already trimmed and waxed it with the best of care that very morning, it needs little attention from a barber’s blade. 

“It does, its unruly” no. It’s ruggedly handsome. Framing Peter’s face excellently with its mottled grey, white and black. The look of a man weathered by storms and stress, a man who can be both jovial and fierce over his core of sorrow and damnation. One might find those masks deceiving but Elias finds it breathtaking. To hold the attention of a man so passive of any skin deep emotions is the highest praise Elias could hope for. 

Peter turns quiet and Elias waits for him. 

“Still wanting that divorce?” The silence is broken, or rather cracked. The peace of the room remains intact though splintered like sturdy glass, allowing noise to barely peek through the gaps.

“Thinking about it” he ponders, finally letting go of Peter’s beard in favour for splaying his palm against his beating heart, fingers combing through his chest hair and feeling the quiet thump of a cold pulse. Calculatingly his tongue sweeps over his teeth, lips locked in a warm sneer. 

“What are you wanting? so I can prepare” his left hand comes up to lay atop his husband’s. A glinting smile mirroring the smaller man’s like two hyenas meeting over a carcass and goading the other to take the first bite. 

“At least 65%” he shrugs. Flippantly casting a quick glance over Peter's ring- plain and smooth as Peter always requests. Though it's already gained a few scratches from the Tundra which Elias can't help but see as her own mark of possession. Which is stupid because its a ship and hes Peter’s husband; in sickness and in health etc. 

Peter’s laughter rumbles low in his chest, rippling under Elias’ hand like tectonic plates shifting beneath the earth. His eyes crinkling with jovial disbelief “you’ll bankrupt me one day” 

“How boring” Elias chuckles with him, quiet and short. Almost as if the air got stuck in his throat on the intake. “Then what would i do?” 

“You’ll have to start courting Fairchild’s” Elias smacks him lightly on the shoulder. 

“Can you imagine?” No. On the spectrum of ‘people’ Fairchilds fall on the very opposite end to Lukas’. Where the vast is fast paced and frivolous the lonely is reserved and quiet, always sure of the ground they stand on. Which is exactly what Elias needs. The certainty of standing the right way up is just as important as viewing from the correct position. The knowledge of where he and his husband stand is just as important as knowing where they don’t. “Oh-! That reminds me” he sits up a little straighter, not wanting to dwell on such thoughts “I have a meeting with Simon tomorrow”

“What about?” If Peter had noticed the flicker of vacancy over his husband's face, he doesn’t mention it. Instead favouring to follow the direct line of inquiry. 

“Something about assets” 

“Maybe he's finally acquired the gift of soothsaying and is on his way to preposition you early” Peter grins, looking at Elias with an unnamable expression. If someone was to try and describe it, they might say sincerity. 

Quietly the smaller man laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling with age and levity. He takes a breath, turning his gaze down. “I don’t think my hair would recover from being so windswept” 

“Is that your way of saying you’d rebuff his advances?” Peter squeezes him a little over his waist. The way he does when he’s pandering for sex, though it lacks that incessant roaming of fingers and picking at his waistband. Maybe that will change soon, then again maybe not. Elias keeps his eyes focused to the glint of Peter’s ring, freshly recalling how annoyed he is with his husband's actions. 

“I love Simon dearly but he doesn’t exactly have what I’m looking for in a partner” his tone raising with the innuendo. 

Peter’s brow raises in much the same way. His chin jutting out with interest before his eyes cloud over with a hard accusation “how do you know?” 

“I always Look” 

“What?” He leans up on his elbows, craning his next and furrowing his brow with blatant confusion “why?”

“Oh I don’t know…” he turns quiet, still not reaching Peter’s eye “curiosity? Blackmail? Potential?” 

“Did you…?” Peter lets his unspoken words linger, eyes flickering, with the least amount of subtlety, downwards.

“Within the first five minuets of meeting you” he was James then. When they first met. He had auburn hair and greying temples and Peter was fresh faced with the sea and abrasive in his manner. Both of them detested with the other as they didn’t, for no better turn of phrase, meet eye to eye. A match that needed to be aged like fine wine before it could really smooth itself out. Oh how times change.

“And?”

“What do you mean ‘and?’” Elias whips his head upward to meet Peter’s expectant gaze. 

“Did you like what you saw?” He asks, stupidly. Quietly Elias settles himself once more like a cat preening in a sunbeam. 

“Peter, I’ll let you in on a little secret” he leans in close, smile sharp as he hovers above his husband’s face before whispering lightly “you’re the only one I married”

Amusingly he watches Peter’s expression blossom from the furrowed confusion to understanding and then, disgustingly prideful. Elias can barely contain the urge to laugh at his idiocy. Mordechai would never have allowed such expressions to curse his features, let alone the sting of jealousy or the poison of pride. It feels nice; like an acupuncture’s pinprick piercing a throbbing rot deep in his nerves, freeing him from a locked stupor. He blinks. 

“Rayner’s is tiny” Elias announces the information as he resettles himself once more against Peter's side. Sliding his hand from its place over his husband's heart and down to his sternum as he feels the drag of sleep pulling at him. Peter's grip follows him. 

“Really?” He goes back to staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day finally seeping deep in his bones. 

“Mmhmm” 

“What's that saying about masterbation turning you blind?” Elias barks out a surprised laugh against Peter’s shoulder, enjoying the feel of Peter's own coupling chuckle shaking the mattress ever so slightly. 

“Just shrivelled up from neglect after he lost his sight” he mutters against Peter’s skin, tone light and merry with the delirium of sleep-bound comfort “too afraid to touch it again” 

They lay in silence together for a moment, sharing each other’s warmth as the minutes drag by. Peter is still staring at the ceiling as Elias relaxes into the comforting embrace of their marital bed, resting his eyes ever so slightly.

“Forgiven me yet?” Peter asks abruptly causing Elias to turn away from the haze of his almost-there slumber. 

“Spoilsport” he mutters, cracking an eye open to gaze at his husband's shadowed face. When did he turn the lamp off? It doesn’t really matter. Not when Peter turns to smile wonkily at him before leaning over ever so slightly. 

“Goodnight” he bids before their mouths meet. It’s a quick press of lips, acting as a stamp sealing off their intimate moment like a signed contract. God knows they’re so practiced at filling those dotted lines. 

“Goodnight” Elias repeats softly with the burden of sleep. 

They then settle themselves for the last time, allowing one another their respective peace to lull themselves into the emptiness of thoughts and then instantly into slumber. 

———

It’s near three AM when it wakes him. The deep, saturated call of loneliness tugging at his senses like a velvety siren. Groggily he opens his eyes to the darkness of the room, aware of Elias’s weight snug against him. 

He’s awake too. 

Peter can feel his heartbeat, steady but not in the sluggish way a sleeping person’s blood may be pumped around them. No. He is awake and silent. Promptly, he flicks his gaze over to his husband to see him Watching. Concentration deep in the lines furrowing his brow and his green eyes razor sharp in their intensity as they glare blankly. Like a corpse.

Peter jostles him slightly, forcing Elias to break his concentration and aims his glare to the source of his interruption. The sensation of mellowed sadness raising his hair like static and adrenaline mixed together. 

“Is she alright?” Peter asks quietly, knowing fully well that she isn’t. 

“She’s grieving” Elias answers, voice cold. 

Peter hums in understanding, finally hearing Esme's faint sobs echoing down the hall. 

“She’ll tire herself out soon” Elias reassures before pulling away to settle on his own side of the bed. Not out of comfort. Peter knows it’s really so he can watch in peace. Whether for enjoyment or concern Peter can’t honestly say, so he leaves him be. 

Rolling on his side, facing away from each other, Peter does the same. Feeling a jarring split from reality as the loneliness saturates his very lungs. 

Both of them pretend to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely reception the first chapter received- the comments and kudos’ were a great boost for my first week back at work and i hope you all enjoy this new chapter! 💜💜

Peter wakes first. Always has and always will. Unbreakable habits built up from the many years out at sea, being up with the light of the sun to fulfill the days endless work. Even now, waking up in a bed that isn’t rocked by the waves, it is a fact he maintains keenly. 

So Peter blinks awake to the shaded room, the days first light peaking through the drawn curtains and stretching along the floor. His husband still remains dead to the world beside him, curled into the duvet and ignorant to the world beyond his own. 

It’s half six in the morning. Elias won't be up ‘til around seven and won't even be seen til eight. So Peter rolls out of bed, heads to the bathroom and showers. 

He dries and dresses quickly, throwing on some trousers and a favoured jumper. A cashmere one Elias got him on their 2nd honeymoon in Sweden, when sentimentality was fresh on his mind. He casts a glance to his prone form once again. He’s still deep in sleep, tucked in on his front, breathing shallow with his hands shoved under his pillow. 

Fleetingly he thinks of how he could slide in beside him and give a rather nice wake up call. Though he dismisses the idea with a quick shake of his head. Elias is still mildly mad at him and disturbing him from such peace many only harm the fragile treaty they’ve struck. 

Best to leave him be. 

Peter exits, aiming for the stairs, thinking of breakfast. Mainly how making a sort of atonement meal will surely earn him Elias’ affection or at least a lighter divorce. 

In the kitchen he reaches for the stove and digs out a pan. Elias’ favourite has always been a spring onion and chive omelette, so that’s where he directs his creativity. He’s made the meal a thousand times after a thousand arguments, therefore basic muscle memory works for him as he turns on the hob and reaches for the eggs. 

He’s always enjoyed cooking- ever since he discovered how lonely cooking for one can feel. Yes, microwave meals will always give that extra bite of solitude but there’s something so affirmingly solitary to spend so much time on a meal to end up eating alone. It turned its taste almost sour in a pleasantly despairing kind of way. 

Elias would always say it would just need more salt. 

Mindlessly he cracks the eggs into the pan, watching them pop and sizzle against the heat. Thinking deeply into what Elias had said last night, his plain band of gold glinting in the early sunlight.

They’ve been married almost four months now- divorced and re-married twice before. This would be the shortest if Elias remains true to his word. Which is fine, he supposes. It would mean less of his money being gifted on needless furniture or overpriced suits and the aching absence would feel heavenly against the draw of his god. It would mean more time with the Tundra, feeding his patreon and soaking in the water’s solitude.

But they would get married again. Of that he is certain.

Elias can't go without a certain lifestyle for long, like a parasite without a host. In the same way he couldn’t go too long without a certain type of company before turning completely hollow like embers without the breeze to guide it. They would both break down and die without the other. 

But marriage was expensive. And loud. And crowded. As mentioned, Elias lives for a certain lifestyle and that lifestyle entailed just that ‘a life with style’. Designers and brands and fabrics and power. He craved it like Peter craved quiet. A habit he was more than happy to feed; their home being a proud example of Elias knowing exactly what he wanted, where he wanted it and how he wanted it. He supposes thats what makes the sex so great. 

He flips the omelette over and begins preparing its other ingredients.

“Uncle Peter?” Her voice nearly nearly makes him jump from his very skin or rather jump from this plane of reality. He does neither though, except for having a mini heart attack and nearly crushing the avocado in his grip. 

Startled, he turns to acknowledge the small girl standing in her frankly hideous pyjamas in the middle of the kitchen. When had she got there? She surely didn’t have the capacity to move quietly and entering the pathways of their patron would have been too noticeable for him to have stood in ignorance. God forbid his dwelling on the state of his marriage actually engrossed him to the point of being off guard. Elias would love to know he occupies his mind so heavily. 

“Esme” he pinches his brow “what are you doing up?” 

A glance to the clock tells him it's just gone a quarter past seven. Perhaps Elias woke her as a cruel jibe to ruin his precious alone time- but he knows that can't be right. He most certainly wouldn't go out of his way to do such a thing so early in the morning. Elias barely allows Peter, his darling husband, to see him before he's taken care of his face and sleep mussed hair. Another reason why morning sex is a very rare treat, given when Elias is in a particularly good mood. 

Esme simply shrugs, Bruno tucked under her arm, rubbing her eyes of the stubborn sleep. 

“Hungry?” He inquires almost without thought and it shocks him to say the least. 

Esme nods, hoisting Bruno higher up in her arms and Peter gets an idea, “want to help me cook?”

He was never allowed in the kitchens as a child simply because his father had forbidden it. He despised the idea of children in the kitchen- well no he despised the idea of children. The fact he ended up with five, then three, now one is a tribute to that fact. Though his father never really lived long enough to see that process happen- that was all his mother’s doing. 

“Can i?” Esme asks with that familiar spark of curiosity just before Peter pulls a chair up to the counter for her to stand upon. Instantly she is there, balancing on the seat beside him. 

“We’ll make Uncle Elias’s breakfast first- otherwise he’ll be grumpy all day and we don’t want that” he whispers conspiringly, not feeling the prickle of being watched on his skin. Elias must be too busy applying his overly expensive moisturiser. 

Esme giggles, putting that ratty teddy on the counter and turns to Peter, characteristically lively “he’ll look like this” she adds, putting on the biggest scowl she can muster. Which is surprisingly on point.

“Exactly” Peter chuckles, hoping to whatever god there is that she does that in Elias’ presence just so he can watch him try not to scowl in the exact same way. “So what you can do is chop up some chives”, he passes her a dull, cutlery knife and a handful of chives. “Just be careful of your fingers,” he warns, watching her carefully hack at the garnish.

Contented, he turns away to grate the cheese, one eye on Esme’s chopping skills and the other on the cooking omelette.

———

Laboriously Elias drapes his midnight black silk robe over his shoulders as he moves from bed to bathroom. He woke moments ago, not surprised to see Peter’s side of the mattress empty and cooling as he came to greet the morning. He doesn’t give his husband the satisfaction to feel lonely. He prefers to wake up alone.

Elias folds himself neatly into the little vanity chair in the brightly lit bathroom. The mirror before him detailing how rumpled he is from sleep as he absently runs through his mental list of what he has to do today. Namely get sorted for work, figure out what to do with his husband and their temporary child whilst also figuring out how to deal with whatever Simon wants. 

Pulling forth all his preferred care products he ponders on the solutions to his many problems. One doesn’t body hop for two hundred years without picking up on tricks to preserve youthfulness, you know. He has a certain routine that he follows strictly and abhors being interrupted- a fact Peter has come to begrudgingly accept. 

Firstly he sets the tap running until the water turns warm, cupping his palm to the flow before splashing his face as pristinely as humanly possible. Though he isn't entirely human. Not anymore. 

He can hear Peter bustling about in the kitchen, no doubt trying to get back into his good graces with errant devotion. He doesn’t dare to look, always eager for some sort of surprise as he presses a towel fleetingly to his chin to stop stray droplets ruining his silk pyjamas. He can also hear the distinct set of footsteps upon the landing whilst he reaches for the toner. 

Absently he flickers his gaze to her whilst applying the liquid to a cotton pad, watching her stand by the banister to figure out who is down the stairs.

She's left the bedside lamp on in her room- since when did it become her room- he notes with distaste before attentively rubbing the pad across his brow, cheeks, chin and nose, then down under his jaw, over his throat before reaching his clavicles. He’ll have to turn that off before he goes down for breakfast. 

Esme, he notices, begins her descent down the stairs with that dreary teddy still underarm. Perhaps he should offer to wash it? But it may come undone during the spin cycle and that may just make things worse.

He never had anything like that when he was a child, though there was a great dapple rocking horse that sat in the drawing room. It was purely for decoration however as his father would smack him to the floor if one hair from its stolen mane were put out of place. A family heirloom it was. He’s still mildly pissed off his sister got it in the will. 

Well no- his sister's husband got it and later pawned it when their property was under siege from the taxman. He glances at himself in the mirror; willing away that aged anger. 

Perhaps the Lukas’s encourage such attachment to material to detach them from the social. He should ask if Peter ever had a raggedy old teddy, he ponders whilst carefully applying three drops of antioxidant to his face and patting lightly upon the skin.

Peter has never been one to share his toys, always hoarding his treasures like a dictating magpie. Oh, he must have been the most bothersome child. 

Next he daps a fingertip’s worth of eye cream to his eyelids and unattractive crows feet, working it gently into his skin. Esme is downstairs now, wandering into the kitchen. Good, Elias thinks, he can handle her now since she is technically his responsibility. 

He next reaches for the moisturiser, a ridiculously expensive product but invaluable nonetheless with how it gives his skin that youthful, effortless complexion. Elias always had good skin, even before he was laid cold and unconscious on the steps of the panopticon for a preemptive ocular surgery. It was one of the main reasons why Jonah chose him, besides of course his slender build and desperately unnoticeable connection to life. The height was something of a con to his many pros but he can work around it- with heeled shoes mainly. 

Gently he rubs the moisturiser deep into his soft complexion, warding off the onset lines of stress and age.

Next he reaches for his pomade, scraping a pea-sized amount from his specialist tin and warms it between his rubbing palms. 

He can smell what Peter is cooking now in the kitchen, his stomach gurgling in response as the oil begins to melt against his hands. With practiced ease does he apply the product, first rubbing it in laboriously before grasping a comb and styling it primly. 

The man admiring him from the mirror looks positively divine, if he must say so. Barnabas always said he was a vain man and he cant say he disagrees- beauty is power in his mind, and he has a surplus of both.

As he reaches for his tooth brush he can hear Esme giggle over something in the kitchen below. Perhaps Peter’s burnt himself. A smile quietly settles upon his face when dipping the colgate laden brush under the tap before bringing up to his mouth.

He is still mad at Peter. Even after all his many bothersome apologies and hearing that he's burnt himself over making Elias a forgiveness breakfast is indefinitely charming.

Perhaps he will forgive him, when Esme is finally gone and maybe he has a gift or two. A second honeymoon perhaps? Monte Carlo is always nice this time of year.

He spits and rinses and spits again. Then ascending from his seat with the elegance of truth rising from her well he makes for the walk-in closet that adorns the bedroom, still thinking of those damn solutions for those damn problems. 

Even though the closet is a shared space for both of their possessions, Elias’s clothes clearly dominate. Peter scarcely has more than a dozen tailored suits and fewer casual clothes even- his work attire being the main thing he wears but is usually kept upon the Tundra. Though he keeps one of his fancy Captain’s uniforms deep in the back of his closet space for big events like the institute's annual fundraiser gala and the occasional bedroom celebration. What can he say? He is fond of a man in uniform.

The damn hat however is kept on the high shelf, just beyond Elias’ reach. 

The closet space itself stretches across three walls - organised by seasonal attire- with an island sat in the middle for assorted haberdashery and accessories like ties, watches, wallets and jewellery. 

Elias steps into the room, already certain of what he wants the moment he crosses the threshold. The dion blue herringbone will do nicely today, paired with a subtly gold pocket square and watch chain. The brown oxfords would pair perfectly too. 

Waiting for him in the kitchen is Peter, hovering over the stove with Esme by his side balancing precariously on a chair and a perfectly cooked breakfast presented on the table. There is even a freshly printed newspaper folded beside the plate and a coffee; steaming contently next to the cutlery. 

Elias presses his tongue against his teeth in a mute pout. He might have to give him extra points for this one. 

“Good morning” he announces himself, striding into the kitchen. Acting like this is a normal way to start his day. 

“Morning” Peter calls from over his shoulder as he scrapes a spatula at the edges of another omelette. It smells divine. 

“We made breakfast!” Esme beams from her perch. She turns to him, looking far too chipper for half seven in the morning. Although he doesn’t let the irksome cheer spoil his rather good mood.

Elias sits himself down, taking in the darling aroma of Peter's efforts. Let it be said that even through his many, many faults, Peter is brilliant at making omelettes, “so i gathered”

“I helped,” Esme adds, causing Elias to flick a questioning glance over Peter’s shy smile before reaching for his cutlery. If Peter was going to kill him, poisoning would be a rather underwhelming execution even for Peter’s lack of imagination. 

Quietly his husband mutters something to Esme before she jumps down from her chair. Then totters over to the table, making herself comfortable in the seat beside Elias. Peter is soon to follow with a plate and cutlery. 

Decadently Elias takes his first bite, savouring the delectable mix of spring onion against the melted gruyère.

“Sleep well?” Peter asks as he sets down Esme’s breakfast. 

Elias knows Peter knows he didn’t. Just as much as Peter knows Elias knows he also laid there, eyes closed, fitfully going against the draw of his nature. Esme cuts into her food, as if she hadn’t sat awake in the lamp light, sobbing for her mother until she was too tired to continue. 

“Mmm” Elias nods, murmuring a lie of approval around his mouthful. He doesn’t bother to ask Peter the same. 

“Can i see Jon today?” Esme asks, stabbing at her omelette in a way that makes Elias’ teeth itch. 

“Perhaps” he hadn't thought about it really. Jon naturally would be in (even on a Saturday) as would the rest of his archival staff. Esme would no doubt be a distraction to their work ethic but he already knows Peter won't be inclined to keep her occupied for a whole day and he bloody well isn't going to do it. Rosie might enjoy being a babysitter though, she is always reading those hapless women’s magazines and lingering on the ‘mother’ segments a little longer than a single woman in her twenties might want to. Though Esme seemed to be infatuated with Jon and his stories- much like the deplorable Mr. Blackwood. 

He takes another bite of his cooling breakfast before reaching for his coffee. “Though you mustn’t wander off, stay with Jon” he warns behind the rim of his mug, giving her a sharp look.

“I won't” she shakes her head before nibbling on her fork.

Peter then sits at his place, opposite Elias, with nothing but a glass of his orange juice. 

“You not having anything?” Elias asks as he sets down his mug, brows quirked.

“Conrad wants to meet at the Wolseley for breakfast to discuss..” he eyes Esme before looking back to Elias “arrangements” ever the Lukas way. Funerals were the pinnacle of familial celebration more so than births, weddings, birthdays and yes, divorces. 

Elias has been to a handful, detesting the gloomy depression that chokes the mausoleum as grey washed faces mull about silently regarding the coffin. There is however always excellent wine on offer. Loneliness is after all best friends with the unabashed drowsiness of drink.

Isabel Lukas is a woman he had never met and never will- well not with a beating heart in her chest that is- but from what he could pick out from the jumbled mess of Esme’s blubbering memory she was a quiet woman. With richly brown hair and ebony skin that clung to an uncannily slender frame. Though he supposed, taking another bite of the meal, most women of the Lukas line didn’t carry the characteristic bulk and height the men of the family did. One of Mordechai's many everlasting fingerprints on the family estate.

“Go for a silver Caryopteris centrepiece- it’ll match her eyes” 

Peter nods absently, not really listening. Elias takes another bite, already picking out his suit fit for superficial mourning.

The rest of breakfast is a quiet affair as Elias flicks through the paper and Esme rambles almost to herself about what she might find in the archives with Jon- Peter absently nodding his head, watching Elias smirk at her bold idea that she might find Frankenstein. Elias then pulls away from his paper, absently eyeing his pocket watch before clicking it closed. 

“Peter, I need to get my things- would you help her get ready?” Elias comments as he stands, taking his plate with him to the sink.

So that is exactly how Peter found himself here, in the spare room, desperately trying to scrape together Esme's hair to put into a ‘plait’ because that's what she demanded as she put on a pebble grey dress with a cloudy blue petticoat. 

Peter has never really braided hair. He’s braided twine and knots for the Tundra dozens of times but braiding Esme's brunette locks was escaping him. She had passed him a brush and a hairband before turning around patiently. That expectant look in her eyes lodging a deep unease in him; prodding him to do his best in the same way a spur does to a horse's flank. 

Absently he tries to recollect any memory on how to part the hair from those childhood memories. Judith used to always have her hair in such intricate braids, with coloured scrunchies and chunky hair clips that would stand out against the grainy furnishings.

He really should have paid more attention to how she managed to be a self-made stylist without snagging on any “-ow” tangles.

“Sorry” he winces at Esme's pain, before trying to drag the brush through her hair again. 

He's really not sure on where to start as he gently grasps at the shoulder length locks. Elias would sometimes braid his beard if he were feeling particularly tactile- how would he do it? Clumsily he pulls Esme’s hair to be bundled at the back of her head. Three strands, he notes, that's what he needs. 

So with nimble fingers he divides the hair into three segments and folds one over the other. Years of plaiting baling twine and frayed rope taking control of his movements as he loops the hair, tugging it slightly to tighten the braid. An intense look of concentration upon his face. Finally he pulls the ends together and wraps the band around it, twisting it tight before taking a moment to look at his work. 

The braid itself isn’t bad where it sweeps around the top of Esme’s spine though it’s a tad skewed to the left and loose strands collect at her ears where he didn’t tighten the hair enough at first. But it'll do.

“Done” he states calmly before Esme darts out of the room. Confusion hits him first. And then the scream. 

He's up like a flash, out the door to find her- or whatever monster has broken in and devoured her. Oh what a story; ‘i know you've come halfway across the world to but she accidentally got torn in half by a lamp monster- sorry’

But that is apparently not the case as he finds her in the bathroom, grinning like a madwoman at her reflection. 

“I LOVE IT!” Esme squeals again at an entirely unjust volume before stroking a hand to the lumpy braid.

“What on earth-“ Elias is by his side in an instant, peering into the bathroom with wide eyes “what did you do to her?” gesturing to the girl’s hair.

“She asked for a plait so I gave her one” Peter explains, folding his hands over his chest. Feeling rather proud at gaining her approval. 

“it's a travesty” 

“she likes it” Elias rolls his eyes and steps past him into the bathroom “Esme, come here- I’ll make your hair look better” 

“but i like it!” She grabs onto the end of her braid protectively. Elias grimaces through his smile, eyes flickering over to Peter. Really hating that smugness he finds there. 

“but-“ Elias looks back to the girls winning grin “fine” he gives in, understanding how well a Lukas can drag their heels over anything. 

He smoothes down the front of his suit and glimpses at himself in the mirror. “Esme i think it's time we should be off” before heading for the door, Peter stepping to the side of the door frame so as not to impede his exit.

“Shall we find your shoes then, Esme?” 

———

Jon is sitting at his desk, sorting through his ‘I’m not sure where to put this item’ draw when the knock on the door comes “no really Martin- i don't need a cup of- oh”

Surprised, he halts to see Elias standing in the doorway with Esme beside his hip.

“E-Elias-! I didn't,” he coughs into his hand “I didn't know you were paying a...visit” he shrinks into his chair, before sitting up right again- the picture of a professional. Though actually his shirts untucked and there’s a mark of this morning’s toothpaste staining his tie. He would have changed it but he only noticed it on the tube ride over and he hasn’t had a chance to take it off and shove it into his bag. He grimaces at the realisation of it.

“Well i thought that since you were such a help yesterday with caring for Esme that it would be a good idea to exercise your talents once again” Elias however is impeccable in his dress, spine ramrod straight with manicured hands clasped before his midriff. 

Jon however doesn’t take any of his Boss’ intimidating prowess because he's too busy processing his words. He shakes his head slightly to collect himself “sorry- you're suggesting i look after her today-“

“I would do it but i'm unfortunately a very busy man- as is my husband and one cant hire a nanny at such short notice- wouldn't you agree?” Unnaturally, Elias’ grin stretches that little bit wider.

“Yes?” Jonanswers ; no clue what Elias is talking about.

“splendid- then i'd prefer for you to just keep her occupied down here until, oh lets say, three? Then i'll take her out of your hands”

“i-i suppose but-” 

“thank you Jon, Esme listen to Jon and stay with him- no wandering off - and Jon, i have a rather full schedule today so i would appreciate no interruptions- see you at three” and with that he’s gone, pushing Esme into the room before shutting the door. Grin still obnoxiously wide. 

Jon just looks down at Esme who is looking right back at him- though she's smiling broadly and he’s sort of blanching. “Right” 

When brushing his teeth that morning and noting all the new grey patches starting to seep into the raven darkness of his hair, he didn't expect his day to go like this. Trudging around his office with a six year old on his shoulders, pretending to be an ogre about to be slain. It's not an unpleasant surprise- just one he wasn’t expecting. 

“Die! Die!” Esme chants as she taps a ruler (the great sword of Magnus) atop his head. Heavily he stomps, around the small space, knocking over his lamp as he crashes into his desk.

“ack- oh so cold! I draw my last breath and perish to the might of Esme! Knight of Valour!” Jon cries, coughing and hacking as he carefully places Esme on his chair before rolling to the floor. “Goodbye cruel world!” He bemoans with a thespian pitch, clawing at empty air. He then, with one final cough, lolls his head to the carpet and closes his eyes, body limp. 

“Jon” Esme giggles getting climbing down from her chair “Jon!” She raises her voice a little, dropping by his side and shaking his shoulder “Jon!” Her giggle infectious as she pokes at his chest, causing his tongue to fall from his mouth cartoonishly. 

“Jon?” Martin's voice however does make him open his eyes; bolting upright like a spooked horse to look at Martin hovering in the doorway.

“Martin, i uh-“ sheepishly he shrinks into himself, scratching at his neck.

“You okay? I heard shouting” Martin is looking down at him with that shy half smile. The one he wears when he doesn’t feel like he should be intruding but cant help the need to, well, help. His hands ringing together a little nervously over his chest.

“Oh well-“

“Hi Martin!” Esme jumps up, finally making herself known before running up to Martin's side, taking his hand and bringing him further inside.

“Oh, hello Esme i didn't know you were here today”

“My uncle Elias let me stay ‘cause he's busy- and me and Jon were playing knights- and Jon was a troll and I just killed him!” She squeals with absolute delight before letting go of Martin's hand to collect the ruler still on Jon’s seat “and this is my sword! see!” 

“Yep” Martin stifles a laugh “very impressive” 

Whilst she explains does Jon finally come to realise he’s still sitting on the floor, “Elias kinda dumped her here” he states, meeting Martin's eye as Esme rambles on how Jon theatrically died. 

They look at each other for an awkward moment.

“You want me to manage for a bit? I'm sure you have a statement or something?” 

“That would...be great, thank you” he says, getting up because he's finally realised he looks ridiculous. Martin just tries not to bite his lip, suppressing a smile, as he turns to Esme. 

“Esme, you wanna come with me and say hi to Tim- and Sasha’s here today, you can meet her” 

“but what about the story?” the child looks over to Jon, eyes wide and brow pinched. Her expression so downtrodden that Jon feels something physically break in him. 

“I promise you I will finish the story, I just need to do some work first, ok?” He explains. His voice so soft and sincere that Martin barely contains the impulse to just melt into a little puddle of pining delight right there on the carpet. 

Instead he just wills himself to sternly ignore the thoughts about Jon’s softer side and look at the oh so interesting condensation spot on the window. Will you look at that? so fascinating. 

“...pinky promise?” Esme asks Jon, both of them oblivious to Martin’s silent struggle. 

Jon holds out his hand, pinky outstretched “pinky promise”

———

Martin takes her to the breakroom first because making tea in times of uncertainty is one of his nationally ingrained traits. Tea and biscuits just sorts everything out. 

So, naturally, he leads her to the kitchen and flicks on the kettle before digging out some mugs from the cupboard. Making sure to provide Tim and Sasha with their own cup- exactly the way they like it. For a moment he thinks about getting a cup out for Jon but painfully decides against it. He’s probably deep into a statement by now and interrupting him will no doubt spoil his weirdly good mood. Which he wouldn’t want to do for Esme’s sake. 

Who is evidently standing beside him; rambling in great length of her uncle’s house and how she had to leave her teddy, Bruno, there because Elias said he’d be happier at the house. 

Martin just nods along, half listening. Not really keen on thinking about his boss's personal life. It’s just weird. Elias, in Martin's opinion, is the type of human that you simply cannot picture doing anything except brooding in his office, balancing budgets. He’s just too mechanically pristine to be thought of as having such people-y things like a house and a husband and a favourite tv show. Tim had once said he saw him use a vending machine and Martin for the life of him can’t imagine it. What would he even want from a vending machine?

Shaking the disturbing image from his mind, Martin hands Esme her mug.

“Careful it's hot” he warns, practised with his cautious tone as she grasps it carefully with both hands. He then directs her out to the assistants work station across the hall, putting his tea service skills into action to carry three mugs. 

———

“Tim!” Esme yells, making a characteristically bold entrance. 

The man in question is leaning back on his chair legs, balancing a biro on his chin as she enters. The girl’s outcry causing him to jerk backwards in surprise and lose his balance. Leading to him sprawled out on the floor, the biro skittering across the room. 

“That's why you don’t lean on your chair” a woman chides like a primary school teacher from her own seat. Momentarily she peels her eyes away from her laptop screen and looks over Tim as he picks himself up from the floor- his expression notably sheepish. Her gaze then sweeps to Esme and then to Martin, who is standing behind her. Martin just gives a coy smile in greeting.

“Hi Esme” says Tim, trying to play off his embarrassment as he rubs his head, “Sash, this is Esme- the girl i was talking about”

“Elias’ niece?” Sasha perks up in her seat, taking a better look towards Esme. 

“The very one” Tim picks his chair up and settles it before sitting down- all the legs set firmly on the floor. 

“I brought tea,” Martin mentions as he sets the first mug on Sash’s desk. He’s given her the red mug- the one with yellow flowers cause she once said in passing that buttercups were her favourite flower. So Martin tries to give it to her as often as possible. 

They all have their own set mugs, in Martin’s mind. Tim has the green one with the chip on the rim because, in Tim’s words ‘it’s a chipper way to start the day’. Jon’s is the navy blue one because- well because he's always had that one and it would be weird to see him drink out of any other mug. Martin’s is an old, washed out purple due to it being the only other clean cup at the moment. 

“Cheers” Sasha gives him a cursory smile, before returning back to her laptop. 

Across the room Esme paves her way over to Tim’s desk, still cautious however of the tea in her hands. 

“Tim, guess what” she grins as she comes up to his side, putting her mug on his desk so she can bunch herself up in muted excitement. 

Tim, unable to keep himself from being infected by her childish joy, leans in close whilst mirroring Esme’s grin, “what?” 

“My uncle Elias let me stay here all day!”

“Wow!” Tim beams. His reaction just a little over-dramatic to match her excitement. But being excited is a very rational response to such news which basically grinds down to their boss giving them a free day to goof off. And goof off he shall. 

“Jon’s a bit busy with a statement so I thought we could take her for a bit” Martin adds, sipping his tea. Practically giving Tim the best idea.

“Hmm” he furrows his brow theatrically, drawing everyone’s attention (although Sasha doesn’t look up from her keyboard), “then i think we should keep out of his hair- how does ice cream sound?” 

“Tim it's ten in the morning” Sasha retorts with an unimpressed tone- still not moving her gaze away from the screen. 

“So?”

“I want ice cream!” Esme adds unhelpfully. Martin just hides behind the rim of his mug as Sasha finally pulls her chair away from the desk to engage fully in the discussion. 

“I don’t think its a good idea to take our boss’s niece off the premises” she points out, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. 

“And Jon might want to come” Martin finally pipes up. Although he doesn’t quite like how the three pairs of eyes suddenly turn to him, questioningly, “its- we can't just leave him out”

Tim folds his hands over his chest. His expression trying hard to conceal his frustration at the mere thought of Jon joining them on their epic ice cream outing. Last time that happened he just blathered about oil and mayonnaise the whole time. “He’s happy with his statements” 

“Yeah but-“ 

“Please Martiiiin!” Esme begs with those unfairly big eyes, stretching the word out to emphasise her demand. Martin tries not to let it get to him. Tries very much to ignore Esme’s begging but damn it all, her bottom lip is wobbling and the glint in her eye is just cutting too deep into his heart strings. 

“Well i- i mean we could go” he brings the mug up to his lips again to act as a very poor attempt at shrinking away from Esme’s attention. 

Tim just accepts it as an agreement, “Yes martin! Sasha?” 

“What?” Having tuned out the conversation in favour for turning back to the laptop, Sasha finds herself lost in the crossfire. 

“Ice cream- three votes yes” 

“We could go later- they’re probably not even open yet” Martin suggests from across the room. Tim huffs. 

“Yeah, then Jon would be free to come along” Sasha reasons and throws an odd glance at Martin .

“Well i mean- yeah-Esme?” Martin directs his attention to the child. Most definitely ignoring the not-very-subtle glance Tim and Sasha give each other. “How does that sound? Getting ice cream later? Possibly with Jon? Maybe?” 

For a moment Esme contemplates the offer, a little put out at the prospect of having to wait when Tim said they could go now. Grown ups always do that and she's coming to understand how much she hates it. 

“Okay” she nods quietly before bouncing back with her next thought “I’m gonna get chocolate- what are you gonna have Tim?”

“Bubblegum, naturally” he grouses smugly, “Martin?”

“Oh, uh- probably strawberry? Maybe”

“I'll get chocolate too” Sasha adds to her own accordance and unintentionally draws Esme’s eager attention. 

“Really?” The girl asks as she todders closer to Sasha’s desk. Her cooling tea long forgotten in the excitement of their debate. It’s the most conversation she’s ever been involved in, which is a little overwhelming when you've spent your life being spoken at rather than spoken to. 

“Oh yeah, it's my favourite” Sasha confides, finally understanding the hype of being in Esme’s childish enthusiasm. Quietly she watches with a coy grin as Esme leans over the desk with an air of conspiracy to her movements. On impulse does Sasha lean in compensating the girl's secrecy.

“My mum wouldn’t let me have ice cream but...” the girl pauses, possibly for an adorably dramatic effect “Mildred let me have some on my birthday- once” 

Struggling to contain the aching cuteness of Esme’s revelation does Sasha gasp in surprise, “really?” 

“Yeah! So it’s my favourite” Sasha nods in understanding before returning his gaze to the laptop.

Across the room, Martin makes his way to his desk, overseeing the pile of case files Jon had left on his desk last night- well after everyone had gone home for the day. He really hates how Jon does that. Martin of course had offered to stay and help but Jon just waved him away, like always. Muttering hollow concern about Martin missing his train. Martin actually walks home- but evidently Jon doesn’t know that. 

Tim just starts leaning back in his chair having learnt nothing. 

“I like your hair” Sasha notes absently, having noticed Esme hasn’t run back off to Tim’s side. Her attention is still mainly based on the whirling loading icon of google search. 

“My uncle Peter did it” Esme states, tone proud. The girl then reaches to the back of her neck to grasp at the lumpy braid, curling it over her shoulder. 

Tim, from behind his desk, pushes his chair back onto all four feet, perking up like a bloodhound on a scent. A scent of perfectly jovial teasing. 

“Peter Lukas; barber and braider” he boasts. Then the man picks up his mug and raises it to his lips; which are stretched around a winning grin, before pausing to spare a glance over Esme’s botched hairstyle “he should expand his talents to seafaring stylist” 

Esme however, remains blissfully ignorant to Tim’s comedic needling as her mind reels far out with running thoughts. Causing her to gasp in surprised delight at where her young mind lands upon the topic of her uncle Peter; “did you know I’m gonna go see my uncle Peter’s boat tomorrow- And! I might see a mermaid!” She exclaims, letting go of her braid to lean heavily on Sasha’s desk. “Do you have games on your computer?” 

There had been a computer in her mother's study; chunky and covered with dust from disuse. She wasn't allowed to use it but sometimes she’d be allowed to sit in the study to read if she was quiet and not interfere with her mother's solitaire. 

“Oh- uh no” Sasha stammers, trying to process the sudden conversation change. 

“”Esme my computer’s got games on it” Tim beckons to her from across the room. Both for saving Sasha from Esme's innocent needling and to have an excuse to play Fire boy and Watergirl at work. Which is technically work related and educational since a dozen of these statements talk about people on fire. This is just the kid friendly version. 

Esme is quick to trot up to his side as Tim pulls up a seat for her. Quietly he begins to explain the controls whilst she settles in beside him and Martin tries hard to read over Jon’s nonsense notes. His eyes softening with a fond expression as he takes in the way Jon writes his G’s, committing the small tidbit to memory and then instantly forgetting it because that’s weird. That's so weird isn’t it? Getting butterflies over your crush’s messy penmanship. Weakly Martin notices that Jon must have been taught cursive in school and- no. Stop it. 

Sasha, from across the room, simply turns back to her work; unaware of Martin’s plight and listening to Tim and Esme giggling quietly. 

———

“Conrad” Peter greets as he sits down at their table; reserved in the private dining section. The large hall deserted of any other late morning diners, apart from their waiter.

He’s a tall, wiry man and expectant father of his first child. His girlfriend is a designer of handmade plush toys. Together they have a large social circle and an even larger family who love them. How tedious. 

“Peter” Conrad returns the greeting impassively.

Their waiter hovers at their table side like a bothersome fruit-fly, notepad in hand, “can i get you gentlemen some drinks?”

“Coffee. Black two sugars” Peter states absently. 

“The same for me” Conrad adds, and like that the waiter is away; beelining for the kitchen like an ant hurrying back to the nest. 

“How’s the child?”

“Fine” 

Conrad grunts in response. He is a mountain of a man; old and weathered handsomely with the aid of money dressing his large frame with taste and keeping his complexion ripe. The last time they had seen one another it was at their great aunt’s funeral. They had shared a few quiet words of consolation as Elias clung to his side- looking as bored as usual. Conrad hadn’t mentioned his disdain to having a member of the Watcher openly soaking in their privacy but his expression showed it clearly. 

It is the same as the expression he wears now, eyeing the breakfast menu. Peter opens his mouth to speak but is discouraged when catching movement of the kitchen doors.

The waiter is quick to return with their drinks like a loyal hound- he must be desperate for tips. A new baby is a very expensive investment you know. The man presents the coffees before darting back to the kitchen on Conrad's dismissive wave of a hand. 

“The funeral is Thursday” Conrad states, looking away from the disregarded menu and glaring straight into Peter’s eyes. Peter simply nods, folding his hands on the table and leaning back in his chair. “You can bring Bouchard with you but you know how the family feels” 

Yes, Peter knows exactly how the family feels- not so much for his preference to marry a man but rather a Beholder. Of all people. A man so opposing to their values. A threat to their coveted privacy and isolation. For how can one practice the ways of the one alone when a knowing presence will always be looking over their shoulder? No. To think of it should make one itch. 

For Peter it simply makes him shiver. 

“What about Esme?” Peter reaches for his drink. 

“What of her?”

“She leaves for Australia on Monday” Peter states with his lips pressed to the heated ceramic of his mug. In the corner of his eye he spots the waiter returning from the kitchen. He has no need to look at the menu- he's been here enough times with Elias to know what he likes. 

“Ready to order, gentlemen?” 

Peter states his order with rehearsed precision; the eggs florentine with a English muffin. While Conrad simply huffs out a request for their full English. Peter adds a courtesy smile to the waiter. Conrad does not. 

“Right- yes” blessedly the waiter is quick to leave. Absently, Peter notes to give him a generous tip for the wonderful service. 

“So?” Conrad finally asks, after taking a sip at his cooling drink. 

Peter shifts forward in his seat, thinking of taking to his own coffee but deciding against it. He actually prefers tea and orange juice even more so but this is a serious matter and coffee, he supposes, is a beverage befitting such morbid meetings. He flicks his gaze up to Conrad’s grizzled face. “That’s an unnecessary back and forth trip, isn’t it?” 

Conrads mug is set down on the table with a dull, echoing thud.

“You act as if she’s going to funeral” this confuses Peter- so much so that it actually shows on his face.

“She isn’t?” Conrad simply shakes his head with mute disesteem.

“You’ve met her- over zealous and emotional” his words hold the most expression in them than Peter’s ever heard; disgust and distaste. “There is no place for her at the funeral” 

“Yes but Isabel was her mother” Peter adds, the tone obviously confused. Blood is blood; a fact held rather close by the Lukas household whether that be for breeding or sacrifice. To be born of the Lukas line is to be one of the One Alone, to serve willingly or not. 

Conrad makes a face, the corners of his mouth downturned in as grimace, “more of her father’s side- a good riddance really” 

Peter grows quiet. Turning his attention from his cousin to a portrait hanging up on the far wall. It is a painting of a woman. Minimalist and scantily dressed in a beautifully tasteful way. She is frozen in the motion of collecting water from a river but her eyes are looking beyond the confines of her 2D coffin. Peter cannot discern if they are actively watching him or a trick of the artist’s talents.

Honestly he's lived with Elias so long that any pair of eyes watching him gives him a pinprick sensation under his skin as if they are peeling him away, layer by layer. Ripping delicately past skin and sinew and blood and bone to get to his very core. 

Is Elias watching him now? Stealing another set of eyes to spy on him? He wouldn’t put it past his husband to do so- always keen to get into anything like a child with a new toy. So obsessed to worm through the woodwork and soak in the shrapnel of his private affairs 

“I suppose” Peter muses absently- focused on the oil and brush work staring right back at him. He’s fairly certain Elias isn’t there.

“You act as though you've forgotten about Aaron and Judith” Conrad jabs for the mere fact that he can, his attention glued to nowhere in particular. Peter is most definitely certain Elias isn’t there. 

The waiter bustles through the double doors with their food balanced in both palms. As the man hands over their meals does Peter set his jaw and nods impassively to the man's nervous movements. Instantly, Conrad waves him away with an absent flick of his wrist and back he goes to the safety of the kitchen. 

Peter impassively turns his eyes down to their presented food, not caring to be reminded of how traitorous his family can be. Whether that be of how his siblings betrayed their god or how his mother betrayed her matriarch duty to care for them, he cannot decide. He doesn’t want to decide. He’d rather be left in ignorance to his opinions. 

Doubling down on the believers and all that…

“So what will happen to her?” Peter asks casually, not caring if he gets an answer or not as he picks up his cutlery. 

“She’ll be put in her father's care- i've already had the legalities of custody straightened out” by the power of bribery and intimidation he doesn’t say “that’s about the extent of it” he starts to cut onto his bacon “his name, his residence…” 

“What about inheritance?” Peter pauses in the dissection of his egg florentine. Inheritance is just as important in the Lukas family as their faith- you can't cultivate such a dedicated cult of nannies and butlers and maids who work in gloomy silence without the funds to support it. 

“She’ll be given what Isabel’s will dictates- though it’ll be held by the family until she is of age of course” 

So nothing then, Peter thinks as he takes a bite. Though he supposes it's fairer than being disregarded the moment Isabel’s lungs became devoid of breath. Esme is being given the chance to escape. Live a life and experience the warmth of a family her own cannot provide. 

Not that Peter would have wanted that. The love of his patron is so indulgently cold, seeping deep into his bones and freezing him from the inside out. Coating his organs in a chilled embrace that is more love than he can ever experience. More than his father can provide. More than his mother. He pauses his thoughts on his husband's tender embrace. 

“Elias said using silver would be nice for her centrepiece” he changes the subject, forking his breakfast into his mouth. Absently he thinks of all the places he will show Esme on the Tundra tomorrow.

———

“How would you describe yourself; loyal, Kind, funny, mean, hardworking or standoffish?”

“Uh, loyal I guess”

“Okay yeah- says you’re a wolf” Tim informs, pulling away from the buzzfeed quiz he has displayed on the laptop screen.

“Really?” Expression unsure, Martin questions as he leans back in his seat. 

They had been doing this for the better part of an hour. Having grown bored of keyboard games, Tim and Esme decided to delve deep into the rabbit hole of online quizzes. What doughnut are you? What colour is your aura? Can we guess your eye colour? What is your spirit animal?

So that is how it's been. Tim and Esme selecting whatever bright thumbnail caught their attention and proceeding to get the others to join them in their quizzical pilgrimage on what type of fruit they are. 

“Do mine! Do mine!” Esme chants, bouncing in her seat with unbridled excitement. This is the most fun she’s ever had- more so than her fifth birthday when she was allowed to go to the park and feed the ducks with Mildred. The fact that the park was heavily shrouded with fog and void of any other people hadn’t even crossed her mind. 

“We did yours” Tim chuckles, nudging against her as she leans heavily upon his side. Her answer was unsurprisingly a scarlet macaw- loud and prideful. 

“I want to go again!” She giggles, pushing against him playfully- already eyeing a quiz asking about Disney princesses.

“Well let's do Sasha’s first” he clicks refresh, “Sash, what's your favourite colour?” 

The woman in question doesn’t look away from her tab on a certain recluse artist for research on some haunted painting, “periwinkle” 

“Sasha!” Tim gasps, drawing all their attention “there are children present!” He chides with a gleaming smirk, pretending to clap his hands over Esme's small, innocent ears. Martin begins to chuckle quietly from across the room, “i'll ask you again and i want to be more sensitive to your co-workers”

“Or we’ll take it up to HR” Martin adds before sipping at his 3rd cup of tea. 

“Sorry sorry” Sasha turns in her seat, adjusting her glasses “forgot Jon was in the room” 

Tim cackles instantly, the force of his laughter almost pushing himself from his chair as Martin makes a politely tickled face- like he's choking on an ice cube. 

“Oh we should ask Jon!” Esme suggests with chipper glee- the jibe going over her head completely. Tim simply wipes away at the tears brimming his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath. A grin growing impossibly wide in his face.

“Oh i already know what Jon is” he flashes a look up to Sasha “he's a hedgehog”

“Why?” Esme questions with blatant confusion. Sasha simply throws him a warning glance. 

“Cause he's a right pr-“

“Martin, do you have the Lyons case file?” Jon bursts into the room as if summoned, cutting Tim off in his claim. Purposefully he strides over to Martin’s desk, eyes glued to a stack of jumbled papers in his arms. Oblivious to the others in the room. 

“Jon!” Esme calls, beaming with reinforced excitement at his sudden arrival “Tim says you’re a hedgehog!” Gleefully she jumps up in her seat, leaning her hands heavily on Tim’s desk for support as she watches Jon over the top of the laptop. 

That is when Jon finally allows his attention to be split. Looking away from his papers and over to Tim’s desk to where Esme resides. Expression pinched, “what?”

“Uh yeah-“ Martin coughs, interceding the doomed lines of connection; playing peacemaker to an awaiting car-crash “I’ve got that file” 

Jon simply turns to him, smile faint as he forgets Esme’s claim in the back of his mind and claps eyes on the files Martin shifts through. The light in his gaze growing bright as Martin finally presents the dull green folder.

“Ah good- i've just found the copy of his daughter’s death certificate” he waves the yellowing paper in his grip with minimal triumph “filed incorrectly in the Barton case” Jon drolls, as if everyone else knows what he’s talking about. 

Martin smiles tightly; thinking it the appropriate reaction to his news. 

Esme simply turns to Tim and pulls on his sleeve, “can we go get Ice Cream now?”

“Oh yeah” Sasha muses with recollection before looking down at the small display of time on the desktop. It’s almost one in the afternoon, a reasonable time for ice cream if one ever needed such a thing. 

Tim simply leans back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head, spreading out like a languid cat, “depends if big boss Sims is free?” He inquires and bats his eyelashes politely. 

“Hmm?” Jon looks up from his file, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His attention is completely lost in their questions as he pulls away from the excitement of completing a case file. 

“Ice cream party. The archive gang. At Josie’s. Right now” Tim explains disjointedly, chunking his words with boyish deliverance. 

“Please” Esme asks quietly. Brandishing the widest eyes possible- as if rehearsed. 

Jon stalls for a moment, unsure. His brow pinches and mouth opening just a smidge- as if trying to find the words to dispute them but failing hard. 

“We kinda already promised Esme- she's only had Ice Cream once” Sasha adds, unhelpfully. Her gaze pinning to Jon with a weight of guilt. Who on earth could deny a little girl a trip for ice cream? 

“We really shouldn’t-“ he scratches at the back of his neck. No, they definitely shouldn’t. Going out for lunch was precarious enough with using company time to go out but taking their bosses six year old niece off the premises without permission was insane. What if they lost her? What if she got hurt? Oh he’d be fired so hard he’d be able to taste it.

“Please…” Esme asks again, softer and downtrodden in tone. 

Children shouldn’t be this well practiced at manipulating. With those big eyes and wobbling bottom lip and the all-round smallness of them. It’s simply not bloody fair. How are you supposed to tell someone so innocent no? It’s just impossible.

Jon bites at his lip with mild frustration, “fine- just the lunch hour” 

Tim nearly forgets to grin successfully as surprise grips him. Jon then turns on his heel, case file in hand as he mutters something about getting his jacket. 

“Wow” Sasha breathes, equally stunned. She looks to the others for reassurance that her ears are indeed working and she didn't just have a weird fever dream. Tim meets her gaze with a lopsided smile of equal bewilderment before steeling his expression to a more lax grin.

“Well, who knew Martin- all you need is to master the puppy eyes and he’ll be putty in your hands” Martin simply glares fiercely under his growing blush before turning away, not in the mood for Tim’s...everything. 

Sasha justly throws a pen at him from across the room. 

———

Simon is early. As he always is. Three minutes early to be exact. Striding into the room unannounced, not upsetting Elias from his work though. 

He saw him breeze into the lobby like leaves on a down drift, straight past Rosie’s desk and ignoring her protests to sign him in. At least he didn't climb in through the window this time. The framework still has noticeable divots in it. 

“Simon”

“Elias” Mr Fairchild echos, spriteful as ever for his age. Neatly he folds himself into the soft leather of the offered seat. His cane and hat settled in his lap, politely. 

Elias simply folds his hands in front of him on the heavy desk, “drink?” He asks purely out of propriety since Simon always brings his own. 

“No no- you’re alright” he waves a hand in Elias’s direction as he pulls a bottle from his pocket, manipulating space for a full glass bottle to fit in his inner jacket- but that’s the vast for you; rule benders, in every sense of the word.

“Schnapps?” Elias makes a face as he stands, eyeing his own decanter. Simon drops his gaze to the bottle with a fond smile before cracking the seal open. 

“Mmm- just hopped over from Austria- a little celebratory gift” 

“You know I don't like schnapps” Elias notes, pouring a fingerful of scotch- Glenmorangie Pride- and grimaces against the bold smell. Trying hard not to remember the last time he had schnapps; Simon's birthday party which ended with his head in the toilet bowl for a solid hour whilst Peter unhelpfully rubbed a hand over his back. The acidic memory making his throat burn just thinking about it. 

“Don't you? Couldn't get enough of it last time i saw you” Simon hums wistfully, drinking from the bottle. Elias just smiles passively as he settles back at his desk, sipping at his scotch “though i suppose gifts are nothing compared to your real treasure” 

“what treasure would that be?” Elias inquires, no amount of mental preparation for Simon can really account for the drain that is his need to be so fantastical. So annoyingly fantastical.

“The new asset of course!” Simon giggles, putting the bottle down. He looks younger, dear Simon. The wrinkles around his eyes are a little less profound and the hair on his head thicker than the usual wispy thatch he parades. 

Elias makes a face, pressing his scotch to his lips “Simon i really am in no mood-“ 

“oh Elias don't play coy- now, where is the little one?” He chokes on his drink- this is an annoying habit he's come to find himself at the butt end of increasingly. He is decidedly growing tired of it. 

“The-what?”

“The child- the wain- the wee bairn” Simon expels the titles like a broken water fountain, messy and annoying.

“Esme?” Elias asks as he finally draws in a steady breath. 

“That's the one” he's practically floating in his seat- that's because he is- with pure joy. Elias can't find the words through his scowling. “So how's parenting treating you? Isn’t she wonderful? Delightfully inquisitive, I imagine?” He settles himself back into his seat, cross legged, reaching for his drink “aren't they just wonderful? I love all of my children- every single one” 

Elias puts his drink down with a heavy clink and steels himself “but they're not your children, Simon” he spits in the most gentlemanly tone he can muster. 

Simon shows no qualms to the barb “oh, any child of the Falling Titan is a child of mine-“ he brings the bottle to his lips only to pull it away again, in thought “like you and your little brood of observers, a mother hen sitting on her nest” 

“Simon-“

“and Peter has his crew- though I suppose that's more of a cuckoo throwing weaklings out to feed the strong” he finally takes a swig. 

“that analogy barely makes sense” Elias jabs his tongue to his canine, unamused and tiring with Simon's figments.

“And now you've decided to expand your nest, how exciting!” Simon trudges on, ignoring Elias’s lowering mood.

The man therefore places his elbow on the table and rests his head in his upturned palm, fatigued “how did you even hear of this?” He sighs. 

“No gossip floats on the breeze without me hearing it, Elias”

“How voyeuristic of you” sarcastically, he rolls his eyes. 

Simon tuts “it is unbecoming of a married man to flirt so openly” 

Elias squints murderously over the desk at him, gaze hard and pensive with the frustrating company he keeps. “what are you here for Simon?” 

“Unless of course, that is what gets Peter hot under the collar, then I'm happy to play my role” he folds his hands in his lap, and has the audacity to wink.

“What are you here for simon?” He presses, beyond tired of his guest. Well no- Simon isn’t a guest, more of a hindrance he has to bear the chore of social politeness for funding. Like a prostitution of friendship- If there were such a thing. 

“to give parenting advice of course!” The man grins, throwing his arms wide, bottle in hand. 

“That's thoughtful of you-“

“throw them about like rag dolls is my first step- they love it and it's good for them- helps build their sense of balance and spatial awareness- all true” he fans his hands outward, before reclining in his seat “read it in a book” 

“i hardly-“ Elias tries to make sense of the sheer madness Simon is spouting, pulling his head away from his hand and sitting up straighter. 

“If she were here I would have given a demonstration” Simon sighs, a little dismissive. He reaches for his bottle and takes a swig. 

“I don't think that's necessary Simon, mainly for the reason that she is under our care until her real father can receive her” he takes a light sip of his drink, glad that he has it there to comfort this gruelling conversation.

“Oh really? What a pity- don't you just find her fascinating though? A tiny human- just think about the size of their bones” the schnapps must be hitting him harder than originally thought as he leans in his chair, grasping the lip of Elias’s desk. 

No. Children do not fascinate him. Not with their smallness or stupidity or even the fact they have the most neural connections than any adult for the first three years of their life. He sips at his drink again. No children did not fascinate him. Especially children of the forsaken that he has had to begrudgingly look after. Simon leans back in his chair, a far off grin ghosting his face.

“My Harriet’s just had a new one with her fellow- already i can see the sky in her eyes” 

“He's flying over from Adelaide to collect her” Elias changes the course of conversation before Simon can think of getting out any pictures.

That seems to pull Simon away from his far off space, “oh! Maybe i can pay a visit!”

“Perhaps not- I’d prefer her to be out of my hands as soon as possible and your interference will do nothing but jeopardise that” Elias smiles with a professionally raised brow- conveying his best ‘i will rip off your eyelids if you go against what I’m saying’ expression. 

Simon’s face clouds with toned down mischief before clicking his tongue, “You're no fun Jonah” he leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. The bottle miraculously does not spill a single drop as it is tussled over his torso. 

“precisely” pointedly, he drains his glass “and please call me Elias”

Simon grins, in thought “what would you do if i refused?” 

For the first time Elias smiles, cold and calculating “you've got an imagination, Si-mon” he overproduces the symbols to drag his point into the cruel sunlight. Then makes to stand, needing another drink. Simon just leans back in his chair. 

“fair point” 

Elias is quiet as he reaches the decanter, muscle memory serving him greatly as he pulls out the crystal vile of choice and takes note of his poor fish. The tank is empty. Completely clear, devoid of decorations and gravel and fish. Even Barnabas’ scattered bones are gone. Nothing but clear water distilled in the glass tank. 

He hates it when Simon comes to visit. 

“Oh she's an Artiste!” He hears Simon call from the desk. 

Slowly he turns to see what he's fussing over, to find Simon sitting on his desk and flipping through Esme’s drawings that he forgot to file away. “Desk,Simon” he warns, glass pressed to his lips.

“Oh look it's you” he pulls out the scribble Esme had classified as himself, waving it about happily and completely ignoring Elias’s chiding. No wonder he’s so fond of children, he’s practically one himself. 

“Is there anything else you wanted to discuss Simon? Budgets? Funding?” Elias drives the conversation further, moving around to his seat once more.

“You know she could go far with the right creative influence” Simon, cross-legged on his mahogany desk, prides; flipping through the drawings like a madman.

“I am well aware of her creative ingenious, yes” he sets the drink down, impatience crawling up his spine like hideous ivy. 

“Shame about Izzy though- she had talent” Elias perks up ever so slightly.

“you knew her?” 

“Mmm” Simon hums in agreement, “quiet woman- bookish and a damn good blackjack player” he sets all the drawings down apart from one, gazing at it “you'd have liked her” 

Elias contemplates in silence, finger balancing on the rim of his glass.

“How’s Peter?” Simon asks after a moment.

“Fine” he says flippantly, eyeing his ring. Classic Tacori design, platinum finish with five diamonds sitting happily on its circumference- It’s still as shiny as the day he picked it out; late one night in bed when he couldn't sleep due to Peter snoring like a fog horn beside him. It was a valiant use of his time, since Peter had been loudly thinking of proposing for days and its best to get the tedious details out of the way. 

Like rings and venues- this time round it was held in a ridiculously quaint manor secluded down in Kent that had the most verdant garden- watching Simon push Maxwell into the geraniums will forever be one of his favourite memories. He smiles distantly. Sometimes he thinks he divorces Peter just to have another wedding- maybe go to Cornwall next time? 

“Can i keep this one?” Simon pulls him from his thoughts, holding up one of Esme's drawings. Of course it is one of a blue, cloudless sky with a bulbous sun sitting proudly in the centre. Elias nods not really caring and Simon beams, popping it into his jacket pocket. “You know that with drawings like that she could be one for the vast'' Simon muses, climbing down from the desk and reaching for his cane. 

Meeting adjourned then. 

Elias stands, being a good host and seeing him to the door, “I wouldn't worry about it, Peter already thinks she claimed by the spiral” he grabs for the door handle.

“well you know open spaces can be quite...” he fixes his hat to his head “maddening” 

“I imagine so” says Elias; offering Simon his half drunk bottle of schnapps left on his desk.

“Ta” thankfully, Simon takes the bottle, leaning up to give Elias a parting kiss on the cheek “give Peter my love and remind him of our poker game friday- are you sure you don't want to come?” 

Oh the dreaded Fairchild poker games- held in his grand Cornish residence for his tight knit circle of friends whose pockets are deep and their love of gambling deeper. Peter is drawn to them like a shark to bloodied water, always seeking the quiet triumph of reaping his rewards. Elias has been a few times, either with Peter as husbands or against him as exes. Every time he's come away with little in the way of rewards- often being accused of cheating and punished out of his winnings. He hasn’t been to the last three gatherings simply for a lack of enjoying being mocked so openly. 

“Quite sure- Peter cant fuss me to give him his checkbook if im 200 miles away, in the bath” he smiles tightly; fantasising about a quiet night in to soak and finish those spreadsheets in peace.

“molto bene” he shrugs before striding out into the hall, the air in the room easing the static pressure. 

Elias shuts the door, looking absently over to his fish tank. His angelfish floats dead and lifeless at the surface.

He really hates it when Simon comes to visit.

———

Esme is on Tim’s shoulders, giggling at a volume beyond loud as they race Sasha down the hall of the archives- Jon should really tell them not to run but it’s hopeless. They’re already out of ear shot. Martin is beside him, smiling gently as he watches Tim spin around in circles in victory as Esme holds on for dear life. 

“So uhh, was it a good statement?”

“Huh?” Jon turns to him and Martin inverts himself slightly. 

“i- uh, the statement, Mr. Lyons?” There’s a light dusting of red blush clouding over the bridge of his nose and cheeks, highlighting his freckles like rain dotting a dry pavement. 

“Oh- as good as any story about a man losing his daughter and hallucinating about angels in his grief can be” Jon states bluntly, like dropping a concrete into mud. The silence sinks slowly. Martin refrains from starting another conversation as they reach Tim and sasha. Oh well. 

It was a nice two hours- yes two. Tim had managed to convince them to stroll along the Thames back to work, then Esme spotted a magician and of course, Jon felt the compulsive need to explain all his tricks and got his phone stuck in a bottle for his troubles. Tim offered to smash it right there and then, but no- he’ll do it in his office, to control the shatter. So that is where he heads first as soon as Tim, Sasha and Esme head into the break-room with Martin following, already offering tea. 

So it is to Jon’s surprise to walk into his office to see Elias sitting in his chair like a looming spectre, reading over the Barton statement. His expression blank apart from a shadowed smirk as the corner of his lip tugs upward slightly. Slowly he trains his gaze on Jon as he stalls on the threshold.

“Oh- Elias,” he pauses in the doorway, gripping the handle “i wasn’t expecting you til three” his eyes flicker to the clock of the wall. 

“my meeting finished up early” he puts the file down “so i thought id come collect Esme but you had all disappeared” Elias watches Jon stammer, so afraid of his disapproval- perfect clay to mould.

“I-we, Esme had wanted-”

“Jon! Sasha’s doing the splits-!” Esme yells as she barrels into Jon’s legs before spotting Elias, who is raising from his chair, “Uncle Elias!” She gasps, dashing over to him and grabbing at his hand- no longer shy of his stare “we got icecream and i got chocolate and then Sasha did my hair! See!-“ she swishes her head to show off the immaculate fishtail braid (far superior to Peter’s pitiful attempt) “and then we went to walk by the big river and saw some boats! AND THEN there was a magician and he put Jon’s phone in a bottle! And then Tim gave me a piggyback ride! And now Sasha’s doing the splits!!” She barely pauses for breath, her voice getting increasingly louder with the expulsion of pent up excitement. 

He forces a grim smile, thinking of how he's going to drown Peter then himself if she is going to keep this hyperactivity up all evening. How typical of him to freeload his niece on his staff only for them to pump her full of sugar. If he could dock pay he would. “That sounds exciting- but im afraid its time to go” 

“Oohh- can't i stay?” She pouts, that Lukas expression of stubbornness clouding her brow. She lets go of his hand.

“I’m afraid not” he picks at lint on his lapel “go say goodbye” 

“but-“ Elias doesn't give her the chance to protest.

“if you want to go see Uncle Peter's boat tomorrow then I suggest you go and say goodbye now” bargaining chips. It’s all about bargaining chips. This parenting malark really isn't as hard as everyone complains about. 

She pouts her bottom lip out and clenches her jaw- thinking. How cute. Then she turns on her heel, decision made. 

“Bye Jon” she hugs his legs before departing for the break room. Elias just nods at him as he approaches the doorway.

“i'll trust you'll be ok to lock up again tonight?” Pointedly, he inquires and follows after Esme, not waiting for an answer. Jon just stands in the threshold of his office, stunned. 

———

“How was Conrad?”

“talkative” 

Dimly Elias smirks as he dries up a plate. Peter puts another on the rack, awaiting the attention of Elias’s tea towel. Esme is upstairs putting her pyjamas on after dinner had concluded. Giving Elias and Peter a moment alone to wash up. 

For a long pause they drink in the silence. It is warm and homely, muffled over by the splash of cutlery in bubbled water and the shriek of cloth against crockery. Peter breathes and Elias blinks. 

“Did you discuss the funeral?” Always prying. They're such an odd match to be observed from an outsiders point of view. The union of one man, closed up like a clam, married to another who basks openly in the rain of information. Peter nods, bringing a sponge to a wine glass. Quiet in his contemplation of today's meeting. 

“Thursday, at the manor- you're invited but-“ 

“Yes, yes” Elias interrupts, reaching for the plate on the rack, knowing exactly how the family regards him and his inclination to be seen. Peter doesn't say anything in return “i've already picked out a suit”

“I know you have- you always do” Elias hums in agreement as he opens the cutlery draw to put away a handful of silver. Last time he had worn the charcoal grey suit- so dark it could have been black, though that is Elias. Always having to stand out in just the minutest fraction- has to stand that little bit taller. Always have the last word. 

The time before that it was a deeply rich navy; the colour of water held in the absence of light. His family was furious at the bold stylisation of their mourning as he paraded around so out of place like bruises against collarbones. Peter didn't care that much though- their marriage was on the rocks as it was and they divorced two months later. 

“How was Simon?” Peter asks, changing the subject. He looks straight ahead out the kitchen window to their small garden. It's growing dark quickly as the early spring night rolls in. There's a pigeon strutting around the perimeter hungrily, unaware of the neighbours annoying cat stalking it on the wall. 

“How else can one describe Simon other than annoyingly spriteful?” Elias bangs his fist on the window, scaring the hunter and hunted from his rhododendron- a fierce look in his eyes. 

“Better than him being in a mood” Peter contemplates.

“He killed my angelfish- bastard” Elias mutters with spite as he stacks the dried plates; his gaze still pinned to the shadowed garden, almost telepathically warding the vermin off his lawn. Like an old man Peter thinks, silently grinning.

“what did he want anyway?”

“It’s not important- though Harriet’s just had a child apparently” his husband finally looks away from the window to grasp a wine glass in his tea towel. A triumphant look gracing his features as he wipes over the crystalline stem.

“oh” Peter acknowledges it like he remembers who Harriet is. Elias knows he’s pretending to understand what's going on and lets him think he’s gone undetected. For he honestly doesn’t have the energy to tease his husband. Which is justifiable with having had a bloody exhausting day of balancing budgets and dealing with Simon and handling Esme on her sugar high and planning for Monday. He just wants a moment to breathe.

Silently Elias turns the glass over in his hands, admiring the dull shine to its rim. Contemplating nothing in particular as the sink’s plug is pulled.

Peter reaches for a towel, drying off his hands then reaching for a large knife. “You're quiet” he remarks, stepping a little closer to Elias as he dries over the stainless steel. 

“Tired” Elias utters after a moment, drawing himself up again. His eyes finally reaching Peters and the tiniest of smiles grace his lips. Eyes softening, “don't forget about that poker game on friday” 

Peter grunts an affirmation. Quietly does Elias lean up against his husband and dry a second wine glass. Peter does nothing except lean into him in kind, waiting for Esme to come back down the stairs, demanding a story.

———

The London Gateway port smells terrible. Stinking of fish and salt and sweaty quayside workers that have been left to dry out in the unusually warm April sun. Elias wrinkles his nose and hangs closer to Peter's arm. 

They had awoken that morning quiet and at peace as they went about their routine with making breakfast and entertaining their characteristically hyper niece. She had been practically vibrating in her seat with excitement as Peter spoke of the Tundra whilst Elias flicked through the paper, absently dreading the inevitable stink of pallid seawater. 

He decided on wearing the navy pinstripe for today's outing; consciously trying to pair with Peter’s own attire. Though of course he's wearing that damn hat- showing off. 

Elias simply sucks in another breath of salt tainted air and ignores it as best as possible. 

Esme is just in front of them, gazing up at all the bright containers that trap them on the singular path to port. Her wonder as clear as the blue sky. Elias had done her hair this morning- it looks immaculate in the tight looping braid, if he must say. She's sporting a teal sort of dress that turns an ashen grey as it reaches her knees, a pea green petticoat keeping her warm from the breezy openness of the dock.

It's a quiet day. Bright and warm with a deep running chill in the wind at being so close to the Thames gaping mouth. With its breeze does it bring back memories that Elias does not despise nor pride. 

The last time he had been here, however, it was obnoxiously loud with the squeaks of tires, men shouting and the beep of safety horns as cargo was fetched to and fro. He had manoeuvred himself about the chaos towards the freshly docked ship with divorce papers in his briefcase and a sharpness to his stride. 

Now he marches in step with his husband's pace, watching Esme as she tries to get a better look at the awaiting boats. It feels rather like going on an afternoon stroll with the household gun dog, watching her yap at a game-bird in the thicket. He smiles thinly. He had done that once with Barnabas, hating the strong odour of the forest but enjoying the company and conversation. 

Elias tucks his head down to his chin to actively fold the memory back down into a mind he hasn’t inhabited for years. Then looks up to the skyline, noting the clearing of clouds overhead. Peter walks beside him silently.

Soon they reach the quay, and with it, the Tundra. Large and quiet she sits portside, simply waiting. Elias can practically feel the glee emanating from Peter as he claps eyes on her. His pride and joy. Elias shouldn’t be jealous but he can't help but know that in Peter's heart, cold and uncaring, he and the Tundra share the same space. 

He has no clue who dominates the territory though. 

Esme, impossibly, gets more excited by the sight of the ship. Eyes going wide and grin wider. Peter nods to a passing stranger; a stock taker before guiding them to the gangwalk- both of them ignoring Esme's blathering about pirates and mermaids. 

Quietly, Elias suppresses the bone deep chill that ripples through him as his Patron is pulled away like fresh stitches in numb flesh. Which is what he was expecting as it is a feeling he's endured multiple times; entering Moorland house, here on the Tundra and when Peter is fresh from sea- embracing him with the lonely still clinging to his shoulders in heavy plumes.

First Peter gives them a tour of the boat deck. The sunlight is dimmed up here with a low tint and the air stale, just a fraction. Like old cigarette smoke and sleeplessness. Nonchalantly Elias shrugs off the Patron's grip and focuses his attention to admiring the view. Esme of course seems unaffected by the slow drop in temperature, skipping happily across the polished deck before halting. 

“What are the big boxes for?” She asks, pointing at the collection of rusted containers sitting portside. 

“For cargo” Peter answers; finely practised at dismissing any prying questions concerning his precious ship. Esme continues to stare up at where the dull sunlight hits the container’s corrugated iron. 

Elias, even with his dimmed vision, can feel the questions beginning to cloud her mind. Slyly does he slip free from Peter's arm to stand against the railing, wanting to watch Peter weather this verbal storm alone.

Then does Esme turn to Peter, “what’s cargo?” 

“The...goods we carry to other countries” he takes a moment to think of his words. Stubbornly ignoring Elias's smirk from across the deck and settles his weight.

“What goods?” 

Elias barely contains his chuckle at her prying. Happily does he soak in Peter’s slow inhalation as a quick lie is pushed to the tip of his tongue. For in the containers hold what they’ve always held: thin air. Though some may have a few trinkets from Salesa but they’re usually kept in the lower decks- away from ignorant hands that have a death wish. 

“Oh boring stuff” Peter waves away the subject quickly, looking rather pleased with himself- foolishly thinking he's slain her curiosity. Elias simply pressed his tongue to his teeth, waiting for the inevitable. 

“But what? Where’s it going?” She draws near to Peter. Her eyes wide and perusing like a terrier that’s sunk its teeth in and just won't let go. The effort of her questions making Peter uncomfortable.

His husband just simply watches the scene unfold form the railing, being delightfully unhelpful. 

“Its -uh- its very- you wouldn’t be interested in it” Peter shrugs with difficulty to get the words out “boring stuff” 

“Oh I don’t know- she might find it interesting” enjoying his role as pot stirrer does Elias chip-in from the sidelines. His body held in a faux relaxed state as he leans against the iron rail with his shoulders squared and chin tilted upwards ever so slightly. 

“Yeah Peter!” She nods her head with an exaggerated movement. She crosses her arms over her chest for extra measure. “I’d find it very inter-desting”

Mr. Lukas is not amused. 

He shows this by throwing his smug husband a dirty look and setting his jaw; pressing his tongue to his bottom lip. Then sighs. 

“Esme did you know that this side of the boat is called the portside?” Peter inquires with a tone of voice that makes Elias narrow his eyes with contempt. His fun ruined like paper in the rain. 

“Really?” Her eyes shift- the subject dropped as one would do to a hot stone. 

“Mmhmm- and that side” he points to the right of the deck “is the starboard” 

Elias, tuning out Peter’s preening, turns his gaze back out to the water. The dull sunlight glinting off the shifting waves in a way that reminds him of a polaroid left out in the sun to wash the colours a somber grey. Above him a gull cries out but the sound around them is muffled thanks to the residual loneliness that clings to the ship as if it were truly sunken below the waves. 

He’d hate to think of what it would be like out at sea when the patron’s work fully descended upon the creaking bow and crew. Though they might not feel it after such long exposure. The same way he cannot distinguish the powerful gaze of his voyeur master as he sits in his office compared to simply enjoying a stroll through St James’s park. The comfort of his god sitting around him like fingers in a well worn glove. 

As he stands here on the deck of this forsaken ship does he feel the glove be slowly peeled back.

Then Peter is pulling on his arm, saying something but he's too engrossed in thoughts to hear properly. So blindly he follows his husband's guidance up towards the bridge. A careful eye on Esme as she clambers up the rusted stairs with ambling steps. 

The bridge is unsurprisingly quiet. As is the whole of the ship in this cold stasis of solitude. His husband's safe haven. The atmosphere has been unchanged since the last time he stepped foot on the stern and it's unlikely to ever accommodate him. 

If Elias were a jealous man he might think it's the ship deliberately making him feel uncomfortable as if to chase him from Peter. Thankfully he isn’t a jealous man. Not even a little and knows it is just that his husband is too cheap to get a working heating system. 

Esme, naturally rushes up to the bridge’s console to take in the sight of all those very pressable buttons and blinking lights. Peter is quick to follow after her, eager to show off since Elias is never impressed with his nautical knowledge. 

And why would he? He has no plans on ever piloting a boat in the near future. Though if he did and ends up sinking into the ocean because he's crashed into an island then, he promises, his final words will be a curse at himself for not listening to his wise and all knowing husband. 

“Where’s the big wheel?” Esme, of course, is quick to ask a question- interrupting Peter from his speech over compasses or something. 

He stalls, “the Tundra doesn’t have one of those- see instead we use-“

“Why not?” Her follow up is sharp like a twisting knife. 

“Because she just isn't that grand,” Elias cuts in with a smirk. His eyes trained on a spec out upon the horizon, revelling in the sound of Peter's minutely affronted grunt. 

“What- she is a marvel!” 

“A rusty marvel”

Peter makes a disgruntled expression as his brow creases with lines that age him. Elias grins, not looking away from that indistinguishable spec on the line of water. 

“I think she's great,” Esme pipes up. Verbally wedging her way between them like a waving white flag in no-man's-land. 

Peter turns his attention to her with a polite, cursory smile of thanks before pointing out a certain button or lever or system of the controls. Elias doesn’t know because he doesn’t care to watch or listen to his husband’s rambling. Instead choosing to huff out a breath and mist up the glass of the window. 

“Of course you’d take the opinion of children” bitterly Elias mutters, the itch of his patron prickling at his senses like pins and needles of the brain. Clenching his fist with a tense action, eyes fixed forward and starting to crave a cigarette.

Peter however takes no heed to the throw away comment in favour of showing off some more of the Tundra’s controls to someone who’ll appreciate them. Esme lulls into blessedly awed silence as Peter shows her how a depth perception radar worked. 

She watches the needle spin around the circumference quietly before looking up at the window, towards the undisturbed waters, “so where are the mermaids?” 

This pricks Elias’s terse attention, finally turning a half-lidded gaze to the child. 

“Have you not seen any Esme?” He muses, an eyebrow cocked for emphasis “ive seen three so far” 

“Really!” The volume of her squeal challenging the Tundra’s own ship whistle. Heck, the workers down on the quayside probably heard it as she sets her eager eyes over the water. 

“Mmhmm” quietly Elias leans up against the counter and brings a nimble finger down to flick a dial back and forth. Bored in his movements, “haven’t seen any crew though…” 

Peter chuffs out a laugh. His large hand coming down to gently but firmly grasp at Elias's wrist. A clear warning to stop fiddling.

“They’re on shore leave” he states with a faded smile as his gaze stays trained on Elias’s smug grin. 

“What's that?” Esme asks from somewhere across the panel.

“Their day off” Peter responds instantly as he watches Elias raise his eyebrows almost comically. The oncoming headache of sensory deprivation making him brash and impetuous. A mask to slip over his thinning patience.

“In the fog” Elias quips, his eyes glinting cold. It is a mood Peter is irritatingly familiar with and one he can remedy fast.

“Shall we go up to the flying bridge, dearest?” Perhaps have a smoke?” His grip on his husband's wrist loose but not releasing as he directs the offering. Elias’s expression doesn’t change but the energy around him fades ever so slightly.

He cocks his head to the side in question, “finished showing off?”

“Pot and kettle”

Elias just chuckles deeply, plotting how he's going to throw that bloody hat overboard. There’s just something about that damn chapeau that just turns him into a silly bugger; more so than usual. Though Elias supposes that he must be grateful that Peter can read him relatively well. Like a three year old being able to read the title of a scholarly paper. 

He pulls his arm from Peter's loose grip and clicks his tongue.

“Lead the way” overexaggerated in his movements, he gestures to the stairwell leading higher up the ship which Peter accepts happily enough. Calling Esme to follow as they ascend to the flying bridge- the highest platform of the ship.

The girl, of course unfazed by the sheer height, runs to the barrier to look out over the shipyard as soon as the wind brushes over her plaited hair. Maybe Simon was right about the vast potential in her. No, Elias shakes his head of the racuos thought. He’d rather donate both his kidneys than entertain the mere thought that one of Simon’s whimseys may be somewhat correct.

Casually he takes suit after her and reaches the railing. Already reaching a hand into his jacket pocket for his cigarette case. Polished silver with an intricate engraving of a ship on rough waves. A present from Peter for their most recent engagement. The one before that was gold and sporting a delicate design of wild flowers- a well kept gift from Smirke though the inscription of his namesake has long since been erased by time and use.

Peter meets up beside him, offering his lighter. 

Elias simply takes it with the cigarette already set between his pursed lips. Hiding his excitement to get his first drag of nicotine to calm his crackling nerves. Together they stand in silence as Peter lights up his own. 

“That cloud looks like a dragon” Esme points out as she gazes at the dulled sky, “and that cloud looks like a kitten!”

“And that one looks like a cloud,” Elias mutters, cigarette clenched between his teeth.

Peter chuckles “don't let Simon here you say that” 

Elias throws him a sideways glance, brow quirked happily enough, as he pulls the cigarette from his lips. He blows a plume towards the sky with unfocused eyes. Peter leans heavily on railing with his forearms, taking in the sight.

“I’m half expecting him to drop down with a bottle of blackthorn” says Elias with an impish tone. Succeeding in his effort to pull quiet laughter from his husband.

“No” Peter shakes his head, regarding the glowing embers of the cigarette between finger and thumb “it would be Smirnoff” 

Quietly he sucks the filter back in between his teeth and drags in a laboured inhale.

Elias simply titters against the butt of his own cigarette.

“Mmm” does his husband agree around his drawn smoke, not wanting to contemplate Simon further. Since he’s still rather sore about his angelfish.

Across the deck Esme ignores them. Favouring instead to stare out at the water. Really, very determined to spot one of those mermaids.

For a moment they are silent. Both respectively enjoying the taste of their own preferred tobacco blends as the ambiance of the quay fills the silence. Blissfully, the nicotine floods his veins with a feeling close to fine divinity. Numbing the sharp absence of his God efficiently as a surgeon's knife severing flesh from bone. 

He breathes a deep sigh at the aching relief just as a particularly strong gust of wind pushes at the ship, making it rock uneasily. Solidifying how much he hates this bloody boat. 

“Remember when we danced here?” Peter asks quietly, as if not wanting the words to be carried in the breeze lest they be his downfall by unwanted listeners. He has pushed himself off of the railing and standing tall. 

“after our wedding?” The smaller man pulls another drag from his cig, feeling significantly better. 

“Mmm” hastily he hums in agreement, tucking the cigarette between thin lips.

“Noel Coward” Elias states with an air of clarity, almost to himself. 

Unexpectedly, Peter then begins to hum the achingly familiar tune. Too high in melody for it to carry well in his low baritone but still pleasant nonetheless. Accompanying the deep whistle of the wind nicely as Peter advances toward his husband. 

Elias shoots him a warning glare. Peter doesn’t heed it. Instead choosing to wrap a hand around Elias’s waist, hugging him close. Continuing to hum, mimicking the silky pipes of Mr Coward as Elias simply drags on his cigarette before crushing it on the railing. 

The burned down filter being thrown carelessly to the deck below as he casually hums the next line. Distracting Peter from the blatant littering on his beloved ship.

In a moment of rare intimacy do they hum along together. With Elias checking warily on Esme’s indulgent cloud watching before reaching for Peter's hand. The nicotine and stale loneliness conflicting in his synapses making him feel eccentric. Making him feel bold enough to take part in his husband's flight of fancy. 

Happily, Peter accepts, clenching around Elias’s palm and pulling him close. Together they murmur the bittersweet lyrics; thinking back on the night they last did this. 

‘The thrill has gone’ 

Elias grips his hand gently to Peter's shoulder, allowing the larger man a chance to clumsily lead. The stars were almost non-existent under the veil of that permitting loneliness on that night. 

‘To linger on, Would spoil it anyhow’

Right foot forward- left foot back, moving in tandem as their feet shuffle together over the creaking deck. The cigarette hanging from Peter's mouth drops ash to the floor, catching in his beard.

‘Let's creep away from the day’

Peter turns them gently, the passing wind catching them and combing through their hair possessively. Perhaps it is the One Alone prying them apart for its own dignity. Or the Watcher pushing them together merely for its voyeuristic entrainment.

‘For the party's over now’

Elias smiles gently as they halt, pulling the cigarette from Peter's mouth to get an extra pull. A satisfied grin plastered to his face as he intakes the bitterly sharp taste of Peter’s blend. 

“I SEE A MERMAID!” Esme shrieks having missed the whole display in favour for scanning the calm water. 

In unison they jump at her outburst, pulling away to look out at where she's pointing. 

The water remains murky and still as it always did. Murky in the sense that Elias can't exactly See anything but Peter frowns. Keeping his gaze lingering for a moment before stealing his cigarette back. 

“Hungry?” 

———

They get fish and chips. 

All three of them sitting out in the, mercifully clear, sunshine on a bench looking out over the river. Cod and chips isn't exactly to Elias’s tastes but he must admit, something about it brings about nostalgia. Not to mention the grease of the batter settling him to the welcomed draw of his Patron. 

The metaphorical leather glove fitting back around his metaphorical hand a little tighter than comfortable. 

Peter shares with him, often plucking at the salt and vinegar laden chips like an annoyingly picky seagull- not bothering to use the wooden fork. Beside them both, Esme picks apart her ‘fish cake’ happily enough, though what is in said ‘fish cake’ is too far beyond Elias’ knowledge.

Though what does catch Elias’s attention is his husband's sudden stillness. His head swivelled away from the river and hand flexing over his knee with an expectant impatience. A tick Elias has seen countless times in Peter’s behaviour- mainly when he's excited over a good hand and awaiting to lay his final blow upon the table. 

A rather big tell if you know what you’re looking for of course. 

Peter is watching someone- hungering for more than battered cod. His head turned to regard a solitary figure sitting on the bench a little ways down from theirs. The stranger hunched over, not taking in the scenery or simply resting. They're all alone. Practically marinating in the fog of their own despair. 

Elias flickers his gaze over the lost lamb, smirking as he absently bites into the flimsy fork. 

“His wife has just left him” he chips in, leaning close to Peter’s side- he’s not going to miss on a chance to feed his patreon either, especially since being so weakened with their momentary separation. “He’s been kicked out- no one to turn to...”

The only inclination that Peter is listening to him is the slightest twitch of a finger in his direction. Elias grins, sucking on his wooden fork as the larger man keeps his gaze fixed to the lone man.

For one minute he is there, quietly drowning in his own misery and the next he is gone. Swallowed by static and chilled fog, peacefully plunged into the arms of the One Alone. He will be loved there. More love than his wife can provide. 

“Ex-wife” Elias adds, not ashamed of skimming lightly over Peter’s open thoughts “no- widower” he corrects.

Peter steals another chip, looking thoroughly satisfied and decidedly non-pulsed to Elias's teasing. 

Esme throws her chip at a seagull causing a swarm. They go home soon after that. 

———

“I've already booked a car to collect him from the airport” 

“you mean you’ve asked my driver to go get him” Peter’s muffled accusation comes from beneath the towel being rubbed swiftly over his damp hair.

“one of your drivers” Elias shoves the toothbrush back into his mouth, staring at Peter in the mirror. Their hair damp from the shower and skin flushed pink. 

Peter grabs for his own toothbrush after hoisting his pyjama pants up over his hips, “And after that?”

“He shall meet us at the connaught- yes i've already booked it-“ he ducks his head low to spit at the sink “-then he can take her out of our hands” 

Softly Peter hums, muffled around the brush- a certain sort of dismissal that Elias has come to know means he's wanting to say something that he can't phrase. 

“what?” Elias rinses his brush under the running tap, really in no mood to pander to Peter’s verbal credulity. Especially since he once again had to ease Esme into slumber with a recounted story- as his were quotedly ‘amazing’. 

Quietly he filed the compliment down as an achievement to pride over once he had gotten over the hatred of actually spinning a line of magic and putridly happy endings. 

“you haven’t been snooping?” Peter spits some foam to the sink. 

“snooping?” 

“Mm” he nods, the brush back in his mouth. 

Elias smirks and reaches for his comb. His other hand absently wiping at the foam collected at the corner of his mouth whilst droplets drip from his hair to his shoulders. 

“is that your way of saying you're concerned for her safety?” He tuts loudly with a distinct clacking of teeth “sounds rather soft” 

The blow is decidedly low but they had opened those barriers when they had pressed rings to one another's' fingers. Peter shoots an ugly glare and spits, rinse, spits- clearly wounded but his husband’s tedious snark.

“See it's not nice is it?” Elias adds with a crisp harshness as he combs the curled blond streaks close to his skull. Peter huffs a disgruntled breath as he places his toothbrush back in its holster. 

The domesticity of their environment not masking the rising venom in their actions to the desired extent. Elias grins smugly- always happy to irritate Peter to the point of anger. He would call it the height of entertainment but that would be undermining all the other fascinating points of observation the world has to offer. 

“you kept her from a nightmare- i'm just making sure-“ 

“we’re not handing her over to a crazed axe child murderer?”

“Precisely- they’re hardly on the same levels” Peter pats a towel to his damp hair. The tone of his voice gives away how hard he’s trying not to let Elias have the satisfaction of getting the better of him. 

“Regardless-“ he grins “You care”

Peter pulls the towel away, throwing it to the hamper and sourly pinching his expression.

“She's family” quietly he reasons. 

Instantly Elias chokes out a surprised chortle; loud and snide as it echoes off the white bathroom tile. The verbrating laughter rattling deep into Peter’s core, scratching at his nerves.

Bitterly Peter mutters a curse under his breath and leaves for the bedroom, not wanting to listen to him any longer. Elias just smirks at his reflection before following. 

He finds Peter in bed, turned on his flank, away from his husband. Animatedly Elias rolls his eyes and fulfills his nightly duties. Taking his time to dress in his select pyjamas, drawing the curtains and turning out the lights before quietly padding over to the bed. Automatically he sets his alarm and slides under the covers; turning on his side, so they’re back to back. 

The silence drawing out between them, heavy and thick as if teeing up the perfect opportunity to swing another needless strike.

“He's not a crazed axe child murderer...just so you know” 

“Piss off, Elias” the words rough with held back irritation, causing the smaller man to smirk into the darkness. Drawing up the alimony papers clearly in his mind before settling deep into the covers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song referenced during their dance is The Party’s Over Now by Noel Coward. I think its a very fitting song for them being of a soft melody but quite mournful in its lyrics of love. 
> 
> Hole you all enjoyed this chapter! Comments and kudos’ are much appreciated, thank you💜💜


	3. Chapter 3

Harry Wellop is confused.

Extremely confused. And yes that might be due to the jet lag from flying across the world or the fact that he's only eaten aeroplane food for the past two days. Or perhaps most of all, the shock of hearing your ex-girlfriend has died and you do in-fact have a six year old daughter that is now in your custody but still, being greeted by a man at the terminal with a professional plaque with your name on is rather jilting. 

More so when said man leads you to a sleek, dark tinted car and offers to carry your bags. 

Harry knew Isabel’s family had money- he'd seen it first hand after his first visit to the huge manor down south. But this- this feels more like mafia level. As if hes going to get in the back of that car and two huge guys will be waiting there for him, ready to give him concrete shoes or worse. 

Harry swallows hard, trying not to think about being roped into some drug smuggling scheme or being bullied into joining the ‘family’ again. How is he going to tell his boss he can't do Thursdays shift because he's now at the footwells of drug lords? Who's going to look after Lottie (his cat)? 

But the chauffeur is standing there, his luggage in the boot, reaching for the door handle. The polished shine of the man's suit distracting Harry from the dull, lightnessness of his eyes. An empty, lonely man hidden behind the professional smile- oh god, is Harry going to end up like him? Was he going to be pushed towards a life of serving these people? 

Did he even really have a daughter or was that a clever lie to lure him here? Christ, next he'll be getting an email from the Prince of Nigeria asking for a tenner. 

Before Harry can think further on turning tail and getting back on the bloody plane the car door is opened for him as the chauffeur gestures for him to get in. Those eyes crinkled around that thin-lipped smile. 

Harry gets in. 

Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe this is all just professional courtesy to make him comfortable, maybe he's just blowing all of this way out of proportion because of pressure sickness. 

He looks out of the tinted window and watches the life of London speed past. The driver doesn't talk to him the whole time. The smile fallen from his lips as they make their way through the traffic. Harry doesn't dwell on it. 

The car pulls up outside a very fancy hotel and Harry swallows his anxiety down further. It's huge and looming with extravagant exterior decor and potted plants lining the entrance. Professional courtesy he thinks. That's all. 

Inside the lobby is a woman, prim and proper as if she's just been removed from a vacuum sealed package- not a hair out of place. Her grin is just as false as the drivers although the glint in her eyes is sharper. 

“Mr Wellop?” She asks.

Harry doesn't bother to be surprised that the woman knows his name. Of course she knows his name. She no doubt knows why he’s here, the company he is to be keeping and maybe even his shoe size if he asked. 

He doesnt ask however, choosing to nod quietly and follow after her high heeled step as she leads him swiftly through the lobby. He trails up the stairs behind her like a lost puppy and into a vast hall of dining tables, each utterly identical with white cloth and silver cutlery. It also should be mentioned that they are all vacated. 

Apart from one table right in the centre that has two men and a small girl accompanied by a bottle of wine. 

Yes, Harry thinks, definitely mafia. 

His legs will him to move; following the woman straight to the table as the two men look up to greet him- he says greets, they just sort of look up and stare at him. Their expressions black and lacking any real detail apart from boredom. 

There’s one hulk of a man with a beard and those dull blue eyes stuck inside his head. The same as the drivers but less keen. Lost and sullen as they look into him. The intimidating size of him doesn’t help Harry’s already shaken nerves. Especially since the man looks like he could break Harry like a cheap toothpick if he wanted. Beside him, however, is a man who is comically his opposite.

He's small, about five’ four and thin, with a clean shaven face and gelled back hair- wearing a suit that looks like it could buy his house from under him in a matter of moments. 

Harry swallows and tries his best to smile. 

The smaller man grins at him sharklike- oh he'd much rather be dealing with actual sharks in this moment than sitting between these two men, who are obviously drinking in the scent of his fear. Curdling it on their pallets like a fine wine that's been aged to perfection in a dusty cellar. 

The woman who had led him up here turns suddenly- marooning him on an island to fend off the pirates lurking there. He watches her leave out of the corner of his eye, finally catching notice of the third member of the company. 

His daughter, he realises with a sharp jolt as if electrocuted by a cattle prod. For a weak moment he takes in the sight of her, clad in a lilac dress and hunched over the table. She doesnt look up from the kids menu she's colouring in. Which oddly puzzles him the most since this place doesn't exactly look like the sort of establishment that has kids menus to colour in.

“Mr Wellop” the smaller man says before standing and offering a hand “I’m Elias Bouchard and this is my husband Peter Lukas- though you've probably met” he takes Harry’s hand in his and shakes, his grip firm but palm unimaginably soft.

Harry shifts a glance to Peter who doesn’t offer his hand and just sorta nods at him.

“uhh, yeah- a while back though” he nods back, throat dry. Not exactly sure where to look or do what his hand- unsure whether to offer it to Peter as it just sort of hangs halfway across the table like a broken marionette. 

“Do sit, Mr Wellop- can i get you a drink?” Elias is quick to move on, gesturing to the bottle of wine already opened on the table- white, Batard Montrachet. Settling himself back in his seat and smoothing down a crease in his jacket. His eyes scouring deep into Harry's own.

Is it hot in here? It must be. It has to be. Probably a broken heating system or something as he feels his forehead begin to simmer ever so slightly. His whole body suddenly heats up like a bottle of water that’s been left in a hot car for hours.

Nervously he takes the offered seat- suddenly aware of how much smaller it makes him. Reminding him of being a child sat at the principal's office about to get a scalding for pushing Emily Tookes over in the playground. 

“Oh, uh no thanks and uh- you can call me Harry” he tries to steel his nerves by fixing a touch of professionality to his words- as if this is business. Though his words come out slightly cracked and shaken.

“excellent, then you can call me Elias” the man then pours himself some more wine, before wordlessly topping up Peter’s glass,“i trust you had a good flight” 

“well, as good as any flight across the world can be” he didn't mean to say that.

Regardless, Elias hums “i agree, the jetlag gets to me quite bad, doesn't it, Peter?” 

Peter nods and raises his drink to his lips “prefer the sea myself” he adds, the lightness of his tone throwing Harry slightly. 

He was expecting a gruff, low accent- the type of voice you could sand down wood with but what he gets instead is airy and almost jovial. Making him seem, for one impossible moment, a little less intimidating. But that notion is quickly dashed away- there is no way this mountain of man cannot be classed as intimidating. 

Harry nods, unsure what to say. The girl has yet to look up from her scrambling of colours.

“So where do you work Harry?” Elias asks, pulling him from his sputtering thoughts like a mechanic banging a wrench against a clanging engine.

“Oh i'm a croupier- at a casino” 

“What game do you play?” Elias’s glass makes a dull thud as it is placed down on the table. His eyes lighting up with interest and that warm feeling comes back again- a little less intrusive than before though. Peter sits up slightly in his seat beside him. Really highlighting the size difference.

“Oh all-sorts really, but black jack is my forte”

“is that how you met Isabel? I heard she was a dab-hand at it” There’s a clear layer of verve to his words. His brow raising in a way that suggests he already knows the answer. He probably does. He’s probably got a whole file detailing his whole life like one of those government officials- he looks enough like one with his slicked back hair and wide smile.

“Yes actually and I suppose it's why I'm here now” he tries to grin but the weight of his words sink too deep for him to even try. Peter leans forward. 

“Of course it is- where are my manners? Esme, meet our guest '' Elias taps on the girl's arm and she pulls away from her drawing to finally notice there's another presence at the table.

And she looks- oh god. She looks exactly like her mother except those eyes- honey golden brown with flicks of amber. His eyes. His ears. His wavy locks with Isabel’s chocolate colouring.

“Hello Esme” he smiles warmly, heart racing at the very idea of this perfect human.

Esme- even her name is perfect- smiles up at him and returns the greeting with a shy nod.

“Esme don't be rude, say hello” Elias encourages her, 

“Hi” she says quietly, with her chin tucked down to her chest- the way Isabel used to do.

“Really- she's been jabbering on all morning about meeting you and now she's mute”

“Bit of a godsend really” Peter muses, sipping at his drink and making a face, not fond of the pointed taste of the wine. Elias chuckles under his breath, the sound almost false.

“What’re you drawing?” Ignoring their odd tittering does Harry focus on the child.

“Boat” Esme replies, sitting up a little straighter. A smile slowly growing wider as she turns toward him. The offensive heat clouding his mind is blocked out with the pure joy to see her lighting up; causing something deep inside him to relax just to be in her company.

“Do you like boats?”

“Yeah! And yesterday Uncle Peter let me see his boat, And i got to be captain and I saw a mermaid!“

“you did?” Of course this dude had a boat- fuck he probably had a yacht that runs on fucking tiger tears. 

“Harry can see the port from where he lives in Adelaide- he can see all sorts of boats” Elias adds and Harry has to swallow down all those questions of ‘i don't think i told you that. Did i tell you that? How did you know that? Who told you that?

No. Just sit and smile and nod and get out of here. And take Esme. He's only known her for five minutes but he feels deep down in his soul that he won't be able to breathe if she doesn't leave with him. She is his. In flesh and blood and bone. His to hold and love and he’d have to be a raving lunatic to leave her behind. 

“Can you really see all sorts of boats?” 

Harry leaves those thoughts behind. Instead choosing to listen to her questions, deliberating them carefully as to give her as much attention she deserves. 

Elias throws a glance to Peter, who mirrors the expression, pressing the glass to his lips. They are almost out of wine.

“Uncle Elias?” Esme pulls his attention back.

“Yes?” 

“When i go to live with Harry in ad-ga-liaid, i'll be far away, won't i?”

“Very far”

“But i'll still be able to visit? I can still see Jon and Tim and Martin and Sasha?” Harry has no idea who these people are. Friends maybe? Family? 

Elias pauses at this, eyes flickering to Harry and back to Esme, “well if Harry says it's okay...”

No. Definitely not. They are going to Australia and living life as far away from this dreary island as quickly as bloody possible. That’s what he wants to say. Pick her up in his arms and leave for home instantly.

“Of course you can visit” is what he says instead. Smile forced.

“I asked Jon about Australia and he said there were spiders” she states- as if he knows who Jon is. 

“Do you like spiders?”

“Not really but Martin said spiders are good for the echo-syssim so i guess so '' Harry chuckles at this before revealing that yes there are spiders but she should be okay.

They spend another hour with meaningless chit chat, Esme asking all her meaningless questions and Harry trying his best to answer them whilst Elias continues to be creepily talkative and Peter being creepily quiet. Though he tries not to give them too much contemplation. Merely making conversation when they intercede it; preferring to hear about how a magician put Jon’s phone in a bottle after they (Elias’s staff, he learns) all went for ice cream. Her crayons fall to the wayside as she gets so caught up in her own stories.

Though for a brief respite she grows quiet reaching for her drink- some juice Elias ordered for her when they first arrived. 

“Can i go see your house now?” Esme finally asks, delightfully blunt in the way children are.

“well we’d have to get a plane- it's a long flight” Harry leans forward on the ridiculously expensive table cloth to catch her attention. As well as Elais’s as he leans forward in a similar, but much more defined, manner.

“which I’ve taken the liberty to take care of- you have a booking at the Clayton hotel which the driver will take you to, and you have a first class flight back to Adelaide at 2pm tomorrow” 

“oh-thank you” 

“it’d probably be best for you to get going” Peter finally pipes up, checking his watch. The sound of his voice is still a surprise. 

Elias nods in agreement, “yes- you must be exhausted- don't worry about expenses, we’ll cover them”

“Oh yes-“ 

“Esme's things are packed and with the driver downstairs” Elias stands along with Peter, ushering Esme to do the same.

“I uh- yes, thank you”

“No need to thank us- we were more than happy to look after her- a delight even” Elias’s smile is upsettingly false like wet cardboard tearing at the weight of its soggy constitution. 

Though despite Harry being a little overwhelmed by the sudden suggestion to leave he is more than happy to do so. The quicker he gets out of here the quicker he can get Esme home- to where she belongs. Get her enrolled in school and let her meet Lottie- oh she'll love Lottie.

“Well i-uh” he sticks his hand out in a weird goodbye offering, Elias takes it and shakes it firmly. Peter surprisingly takes his hand too, his skin cold and calloused. Harry tries his best not to shiver at the touch. 

“Esme? Don't you want to say goodbye to your uncles?” Harry tries, pulling his hand back close to his body. Out of the corner of his eye he can see that lady from earlier heading to their table. No doubt to escort him back to the car in case he's forgotten how he got in here like some lost soul. Has she been there the whole time? Waiting for them to finish up?

Esme grabs ahold of Elias’s legs and hugs tight, mashing her face into his hip “bye uncle Elias” 

“goodbye Esme” he pats her head awkwardly but for the first time a worryingly genuine smile ghosts his lip as he looks down to her. She is then quick to detach herself before reaching for Peter, hugging him in the same manner.

“Bye Uncle Peter, will you come see me on your boat?”

“Maybe, one day” Peter grins down at her and once again Harry can only say how weird it is to hear the man speak let alone smile. She grins back almost as reflection before moving to Harry's side. 

The woman is then suddenly at their table; still as immaculate as when he first saw her. Much like the rest of this hotel. The lady brims with that flashy smile, asking if they’re ready to depart- the car probably already running outside the luxurious entrance. 

He is more than ready to follow, bidding the estranged men a final farewell as Esme starts on a new set of ramblings, grasping a hold to Harry's hand and walking out with him. Only looking over her shoulder once to wave goodbye fleetingly. Peter and Elias wave in kind before they’re beyond the doors and out of sight.

Relieved, they both sit back down, Peter sighing as he leans heavy in his seat.

“What do you think then?” Peter muses, grabbing at the drawing of the tundra Esme had left behind- thinking about how nice it’ll be in his cabin.

“I think if i don’t get a gin and tonic in the next two minuets, i'll actually divorce you” Elias states, pressing his fingers to his temples and rubbing- having to act overly polite for so long gives him worse headaches than the smell of schnapps. 

“I thought you were already going to divorce me?” Peter scratches at his beard, turning to Elias who just smiles at him like he can see absolutely everything down to the core of his very soul. It makes him breathless. 

“I said i was thinking about it”

“If i had known gin and tonic was the key to keeping you happy-“ 

“Then I would have married a barman” he snips, grin widening just a fraction. 

Peter leans back in his chair, “but what do you actually think?”

“She’ll be fine- happy even” Elias pulls some lint from Peter’s collar “now that gin and tonic?”

“Yes dear” maybe they could make this work a little longer. A month maybe? Long enough for that second honeymoon... Australia is always nice this time of year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the short end but i hope it was a satisfying conclusion to the tale. Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos’s and hope everyone is keeping safe and high spirited in these turbulent times 💜💜💜

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Kudos and comments are much appreciated! 💜💜


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